


fish in the sea (you know how i feel)

by phoarda



Series: FITS(YKHIF) [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Domestic, Slow Build, Taxi AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoarda/pseuds/phoarda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean's a creature of habit. Eren's the guy who eats all his food and shakes things up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean doesn't like change, which is why it's so weird for him to start up new habits without even realizing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so here is part I of this massive NaNo draft. its a slow build full of domestic shit. please enjoy it as much as i did. at first. before it consumed me and sucked out my soul.
> 
> not too many warnings for this chapter...there is talk of depression, so watch for that if you think it might not be for you. i don't think there's anything else, but let me know!

So here’s the thing about Jean Kirschstein: anyone who really knows him will tell you that he cares a hell of a lot more than he’ll admit.

When I say he cares, I don’t mean any one thing in particular. I’m saying that Jean is the kind of person who is easily affected. For as much as he pretends not to give a damn, he very much does gives a damn.

He doesn’t like this about himself, which is why he tries to cover it up. It makes him feel insecure, so by acting like he doesn’t care, he builds himself a defensive barricade. He’s practically a textbook case of the Jerkass Façade trope, with his pointed scoffs and careful indifference.

It’s all very elaborate, but if you knew him at all, you’d soon realize how transparent he is.

You’d also realize something else: Jean Kirschstein takes everything personally. You could take any number of people from the San Diego County area, and he’d _still_ be the most sensitive guy in the room. It kind of comes with having an incredible attention to detail. Well, that, and his enormous heart.

Well. It sounds totally cheesy when you put it that way, but it’s true. He’s a deeply compassionate person, and a good friend. Even if he often pretends otherwise.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a difficult jerk at times. And look, Sasha really is trying her best, but it’s hard to keep his good traits in mind when he’s being such a colossal _dick_.

+

They stumble into a cafe together, the door falling shut behind them with one last gust of cool air. They find an empty table by the window and make themselves comfortable, shedding their jackets and falling onto worn wooden chairs, glad to be out of the mildly chilly weather.

Sasha decides to go for a direct approach. “Jean, did you talk to your dad over the weekend?”

Jean’s expression curdles. “Can we not talk about that?”

He waves a waitress over before Sasha can respond. Sitting back, Sasha sets her jaw and studies his face, taking in his averted gaze.

The waitress comes to stand beside their table. She takes their order with quick strokes of her pen, forcing a tired smile. “Anything to drink?”

Sasha shakes her head, her focus shifting back to Jean.

“Tea,” Jean says. “Anything’s fine. No sugar or milk.”

Once the waitress leaves, Jean leans back in his seat and crosses his ankles under the table. “So what’s new with you and Connie? I haven’t seen you for what, two weeks?”

Sasha doesn’t buy it. “What did he say? What’d you tell him?”

Jean glowers, dipping his head. “You’re really gonna make me do this, huh?”

“Jean.”

Jean reaches for his beanie. He pulls it down low, over his eyes, then yanks it off altogether. Sasha crosses her arms on the table, her mouth a thin, concerned line.

“Nothing new,” Jean mutters truthfully, after a bit. “Just that he was checking in. Making sure I’m staying on top of stuff. Just...what he always says.”

Sasha huffs. “But you never _tell_ me, Jean, how am I supposed to know what he always says?”

Jean lifts his shoulders and drops them, picking at his folded napkin with restless fingers.

Sasha sighs, turning her head to look at their surroundings. The table they’ve chosen to sit at is tucked away, removing them somewhat from the rest of the café, dulling its muted chatter and clinking of plates. It’s placed next to a window on the side of the building, lending them a sheltered view of the wet street outside. It’s Christmas Eve, and it’s raining outside, though barely enough to notice.

It’s a charming little place. They don’t exactly frequent it, but they’ve been here before, and the plain interior, with its muted colors and solid wood furnishings, sometimes works to soothe Jean.

Not today, though, Jean thinks as he watches the reflection of passing cars flicker in the droplets adorning the window. He is miserable.

They sit quietly until their breakfast is brought over to them. Sasha does not blink when her plate is placed in front of her. Her eyes remain on Jean’s face, worry and frustration coloring her irises a fox-fur shade of brown.

“He brought up the internship,” Jean offers in a mumble. He slides his plate a little closer to himself, unfolds his napkin, and stabs some _huevos con chorizo_.

Sasha does the same, but slowly. “The one that you’ve told me you don’t give a rats ass about?”

Jean nods.

“Well, did you tell him you’re not interested?”

Jean won’t meet her eyes. He doesn’t respond, but that itself is answer enough, prompting Sasha to throw her hands up with a huff. “Jesus, Jean! You know he’s gonna keep on askin’ if you don’t say anything!” She shakes her head. “I’m not saying he’s right, you know I’m not, but if you never say you’re unhappy, how can you ever expect things to change?”

Jean stiffens. He retracts his hands, leaving his fork behind, and brings them under the table to jam them under his thighs. She’s hit a sore spot. “I don’t _want_ to say anything, Sash.”

“I know you don’t _want_ to, but things are only going to stay as shitty as they are now.”

Jean shakes his head.

“I’m serious. Look, he’s not faultless in this, but until you speak up, you can’t blame him for thinking this is what you want.”

+

By all intents and purposes, Sasha is Jean’s best friend. She has been, ever since they were in fifth grade. She was the girl who’d outgrown the entire class by six inches, and he was the weirdo kid with a bug collection. They bonded over Jean’s unwanted bag of cheetos and Sasha’s intense curiosity for the orange caterpillar he’d found during recess, and from there, a friendship that would last a lifetime blossomed.

What she means when she says “what you want” is the career in law that Jean is currently pursuing. She means taking the same path that his father took, just because Jean was seventeen when dad suggested it, with no alternatives or aspirations to speak of. She means the current state of his life: three semesters into something he desperately wants out of.

Jean still doesn’t know what he _does_ want, but he’s sure of the fact that law school is something he doesn’t. And while it’s true that Jean hasn’t been very vocal about this - hasn’t been vocal at _all_ \- it’s also true that to some degree, he’s being pressured not to.

It was implied with their agreement: Dad will pay for all of it, _so long as it’s law school_. There had been no discussion of other possibilities, and so, paralysed with uncertainty and the looming knowledge that graduation was forthcoming, Jean had gone along with it.

And because Jean is a creature of habit above all else, it had been easy to fall into the routine, to know what to expect, despite what he feels.

And it’s familiar. Jean finds comfort in familiar. Prerequisites and a career path practically map out his future for him, and that’s easy. He doesn’t have to think.

It’s easy not to say anything. It’s easy to keep his mouth shut and his head down, to listen in class and takes notes like he’s been taught to. So long as he goes home at the end of the day and sits down with his textbooks, it’s easy.

Quitting school to do something new - when he doesn’t even know what that “new” will be - well, it’s terrifying! It’s the very opposite of familiar: the unknown.

And little more frightens Jean Kirschstein than the unknown.

+

“Jean, you hate law school,” Sasha says. “Why would you stay in it for another two years?”

She pauses, cutting a sliver of pancakes from her stack with the side of her fork. She shovels it past her teeth, then continues, chewing all the while. “You _need_ to talk to him. Otherwise...ugh, Jean, don’t you see? It’ll be high school, all over again! Before you know it, you’ll have graduated! And soon enough you’ll have a degree and a career in a job you never wanted, and you’re gonna be kicking yourself for not getting out of it earlier.”

Jean slumps limply in his seat. He has no argument for this.

Sasha sees this, her expression softening. Dropping her fork, she lays her empty hands on the table, palms up. Reluctantly, Jean brings his own back out from under him and sets them on top of hers. He doesn’t look at her face.

His fingers are pale and blotchy compared to hers, bony against her rough fingertips and neatly trimmed nails.

“It’s your life,” Sasha says. She squeezes his fingers. “And Jean? I love you, but you need to stop being a doormat about this and speak up for yourself for once.”

Jean straightens a little, neck bristling. “I speak up for myself,” he argues.

Sasha gives him a look. “I’m talking about you and your dad. I know you can stick up for yourself, believe me.” She tightens her grip, leaning forward. “I’m not saying it’ll be fun. I know your dad, and yeah, it’s probably going to suck. It’s _definitely_ going to suck. But you’ve got me, and you’ve got your mom, and Mariana, and Connie, and Marco, even if he is across the country, and we’re not gonna ditch you, okay? You’re not gonna be left stranded.”

Jean stares at their joined hands, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Let’s say I do. Let’s say I quit. What am I supposed to do then, Sash? I don’t have a dream. I don’t have some shit to look forward to. I don’t want to end up driving a taxi for the rest of my life.”

“You’re missing the point, Jean! There’s nothing you’re ‘supposed’ to do. You need to figure out for yourself what that’s going to be. So you take some time to figure it out. What’s wrong with doing nothing for a while? You’ve got a job, you’ve got support. Take pictures. Go visit Marco. Discover a passion for making hand-sew quilts. It takes actually _throwing_ the pasta to see if it sticks, and you won’t know anything until you give yourself a chance to figure it out.”

Jean only shakes his head. He is stubborn in his fear and habitual nature.

“Look, it’s your life,” Sasha says, sounding resigned. She lets go of his hands and takes hers back. “Don’t let me tell you what to do with it, but don’t let him, either, okay?”

Jean stares at his plate for what feels like a long time, unease curling in his gut. “Okay,” he eventually echoes.

“And don’t use not knowing as an excuse. You won’t know until you figure it out; you won’t figure it out, until you try.”

With those last words, the subject is closed. Sasha takes up her fork again and resumes eating.

+

They finish breakfast while catching up on the last month’s happenings. Sasha gives him her take on Connie’s new gig as a 1st grade teachers assistant, and Jean fills her in on the most recent shenanigans at work.

The sun comes out after a while, the clouds parting momentarily to let the streets dry for a bit, and it’s then that they ask for the check, and Jean walks Sasha home.

+

“ _Que tal, mocoso?_ ” Mariana says by way of greeting, when he opens the unlocked door and lets himself in. He shuts the door and peers over to where she’s grinning from the kitchen table, a knife in one hand, a red pepper in the other. “Merry Christmas.”

“Hey, Mari.” He kicks his shoes off and moves to kiss her cheek. "Where's Maman?"

Jean’s stepmother motions vaguely with her knife. “She’s changing a lightbulb in the bathroom. Go help her, will you?”

Jean pinches a cube of cheese from the counter and ducks away from her elbow jab. When he pokes his head into the bathroom doorway, his mother is precariously balanced on the slippery edge of the rounded sink.

“Jesus,” he mutters. Hearing him, Maman cranes her neck to look.

“Ah, perfect timing, _mon chou_.”

She hops off the sink carelessly, stumbling when she lands. “Do me a favor?”

Jean takes the bulb handed to him and shakes his head. “You _have_ a ladder, Maman,” he complains, climbing up himself and squinting to make out the fixture in the dark.

Unlike Maman, Jean is easily able to reach, thanks to the seven inches of height he has on her, and within moments, he’s already handing her the old bulb and screwing in the new one.

“Perfect,” she says. Jean climbs down and meets her in the hallway. “Thank you, Jean-bo.”

Jean has to stoop to accept her hug, muttering, “Between you and her, someone’s going to end up with a cracked skull one of these days."

She lets go of him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, scoffing over her shoulder. Jean follows her into the kitchen, matching her brisk, short steps with his own. “Do you want your mail?”

“Yeah,” Jean says. His mother disappears behind the counter, resting a hand on Mariana’s shoulder for a beat when she passes by.

Mariana whips a towel in his direction with her wet hands.

“Please,” he adds, with a sour wince.

“So Bert moved out, huh?”

Jean takes a seat at the table and slumps over the top, watching as she wipes the tabletop of any leftover food. “Yep.”

“Any luck finding a roommate?”

“No, not yet, and the rent is killing me,” Jean complains. “I mean, it’s great that he moved in with his boyfriend and all, but he gave me, like, ten days notice. What am I supposed to do?”

Maman sits across from him, sliding over a stack of envelopes held loosely together by a rubber band.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to move out,” Mariana suggests. “Rent’s free when your mothers own the house.”

Maman shoots her a look. Mariana simply shrugs, and heads back to the kitchen.

Jean flips through his mail. It’s mostly junk; a few things from uni, a magazine or two. Some of it’s been opened. He blames his nosy mothers for that, though he’s partly to blame for being too lazy to change his address.

“So what have you been up to? I only ever get messages from you when you need help getting a stain out of your shirt.”

“I’ve been busy, Maman! I work, you know, and I go to school.”

“School, school, school,” she grumbles. “Always too busy for his mom. Has your father visited you, at least?”

Jean tears at a flyaway scrap of envelope with a shrug.

(The divorce had been a clean break, for the most part. It wasn’t easy by any means, but it wasn’t ugly and public like the one Marco’s parents had gone through. They talk to each other, occasionally, though Jean is the only subject of conversation, and they talk _about_ each other too, with only minimal levels of spite.

Well, there are the little comments, here and there; sharp little jabs at the choices they’ve made or the lives they lead.

Like when Maman clicks her tongue and mutters, “Of course.”

Jean usually ignores these little jabs. He’s actually kind of glad that he doesn’t have his dad dropping in. It’s bad enough with the phone calls checking in. Those are exhausting enough on their own, thanks.)

Mariana sets a bowl of stuffed olives on the table. Jean jumps at the chance to stuff his mouth and change the subject. “So, what’s the news around here, Maman?” He asks around the heavy garlic taste blooming in his mouth.

Maman stands and reaches over to the counter, then hands Jean the silverware to set the table. “Hm.”

There’s a thoughtful knit to her brow. Jean chews, and waits, and watches her while distributing forks and spoons.

“Mariana’s cousin’s friend from work called on Friday,” Maman says. “There’s this little place a few blocks from where the rec center is - I mean, it’s falling apart-”

“Oh.”

“We went to go see it yesterday.” Maman bites her lip. It’s clear to Jean that she’s trying not to get her hopes up. “And they’re willing to sell it to us.”

“ _Hijo de puta!_ ”

Maman and Jean both startle when Mariana speed-shuffles to the table and drops the quiche with a sharp clatter onto a ceramic hot plate with a hiss. She waves her hand erratically, then pops her thumb in her mouth.

“Wait,” Jean says, turning back to his mom. “Seriously?”

Maman shrugs uncomfortably. “Even if it does end up happening, it’s going to be a while. It’s going to need a lot of work, and-”

“And it’s cheap,” Mariana points out. “And it’s in a great location, and we’ve only been looking for two years, Gigi.”

The meaningful look she shoots her partner is pointed, but soft enough that Jean subconsciously dips his head. It’s a known fact that his mother’s been burned before - that she holds back and lowers her expectations as a result, and that she was sensitive to begin with - but while Jean has generally floundered helplessly when it comes to energizing her, Mariana knows just what to say, exactly how firm to be.

Maman clears her throat. “It’s only a start,” she says. “But this...this could be it.”

And she allows herself a tiny smile.

+

To understand Jean, you must first understand his mother.

Here is a fact: Jeannine Adele Lécuyer is Jean’s single most favorite and cherished person in the world (though Sasha comes in at a very close second).

Here is another fact: when Jean was ten years old, she was diagnosed with chronic depression.

She had been legally divorced from his father four years, but they had mutually decided to split long before that. For the most part, Jeannine had raised Jean and his sister on her own.

After Jean’s father had cut most of his financial ties, Jean, his sister, and his mother moved into the only apartment they could afford. It was small, but it worked, and more importantly it made sure they could pay for their groceries.

While it did take Jean some getting used to - after all, he’d grown accustomed to living on a lawyers paycheck and splurging on a lavish lifestyle often enough that he owned more than was strictly necessary - there were more things to worry about.

The thing about growing up with a mom who has depression, Jean thinks, is that it’s lonely. When she would lock herself in her room for hours or days at a time, he had no idea how to react, and nobody to tell him how. He couldn’t talk to his sister about it; her method of dealing with it was to pretend it didn’t exist at all, and there was no getting her to acknowledge it, much less have a discussion.

Besides, he was already the annoying kid brother. They didn’t _have_ discussions about anything.

Dad wasn’t an option, either. That left Sasha or Marco, but in all honesty, what Jean most looked for in his friends was a distraction.

In the end, he did the same thing his sister did when Maman’s door was closed in the mornings: he walked past without glancing and pretended all was well.

There’s something almost shameful, too - something frightening, a kind of taboo that prevents you from admitting it’s even there. Because when you’re ten and the only place you’ve even heard the _word_ is on TV news stories, usually coupled with ‘suicide’ or ‘tragedy’, well.

It’s frightening enough on it’s own, but to consider that his mother might have it was nothing short of paralyzing. Because the thing about depression is that if you never talk about it, if you never do the research, if you never inform yourself. 

It’s terrifying.

So you pretend it doesn’t exist. You go through your adolescent years denying and explaining away the days you don’t see your mother get out of bed, the phone calls from work asking where she’s been, the pills. A whole variety of them in the bathroom cabinet, five syllables too long to properly pronounce, kept securely in translucent orange bottles with child proof caps.

You ignore them. You tell your friends “Nah, better at yours, my house is too small anyway,” and you learn to stomp out the uncomfortable feeling taking root in your chest, the little voice that whispers _I don’t understand._

Until you find out for yourself what it feels like firsthand.

Jean loves his mother. He adores her. He is fiercely protective of her, has been ever since Dad basically left. As far as families go, he’d say they’re pretty close.

It’s just that in their family, they never spoke about the Depression.

Thank God for Mariana Garcia-Alvarez. Here is another fact: without her, Jean has no idea what they would have done.

Mariana came into their life in the form of a crabby, spanish-speaking, bob-cut sporting woman of short stature; their upstairs neighbor who lived by herself, but was constantly graced with the company of her large extended family.

She shared in common with Jeannine many things, the two most predominant being an affinity for the culinary arts, and her status as a first-generation immigrant.

Once these similarities were realized, it wasn’t long before a great friendship was formed.

It was a slow process. Sometimes it seemed like they’d go forward a step only to stumble back three, and it was hard for everyone when Mariana would knock on the screen door and Jean had to tell her she wasn’t home. With time, things got better; the more Mariana stopped by, the more Jeannine left her room in favor of exchanging recipes and chit-chat over coffee, until one day Jean caught them laughing and he realized it was the first time in ages that he’d seen his mother genuinely happy.

  
Their friendship was built slowly, little by little, on the need for companionship, on the need for the ease and comfort of another human being that expected only the same in return. It was strengthened by both their similarities and their differences, in culture and personality. It did not exclude Jean, nor his sister; instead, it was like a merging of two families, even before the idea of a romantic relationship had been realized.

Because where Mariana would come over and cook for them, have tea and go shopping with them and help with their homework, they would often go to her house, too; and with time they were a permanent fixture at the parties she would throw with her extended family and friends, knowing everyone by name and even learning some Spanish as a result.

But even with Mariana, things were by no means perfect. There were still bad days. His mother was not cured by their friendship. There was still no discussion or de-stigmatization of mental illness. And it took Jean years of his own timid, limited, late-night research, of countless phases where he would force indifference or have to excuse himself whenever he heard the Word, until he was finally able to even call it for what it was. 

It would take even longer for him to accept it. 

+

Jean hasn’t had a sit-down meal with his mothers in a while. It’s nice, seeing them and being around their lively personalities. He’d be lying if he didn’t say he had mixed feelings, though.

Ever since they first met, his mother and Mari, they’ve been scheming about opening a bakery. Over ten years, they’ve been talking about this, but for a long time, it was just that: talk. Mariana had her job as a nurse to keep her busy, and Maman had her two part-time jobs to juggle. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but they were both largely inexperienced when it came to starting a business, or finding a location, or talking to the right people.

But they’ve done their research, made mistakes and been turned down. Jean wouldn’t be surprised if this ends up being the place. He never doubted it would happen, it was always just a matter of time.

It feels like they’re leaving him behind. Like he’s still a lost little kid, and they’ve figured things out for themselves, as everybody around him seems to do in their own due time - except for him.

+

He ends up staying late. Later than he probably should, considering the next day he’s volunteered to take an early shift at work since he has no classes. But his mothers insist, reminding him that it is Christmas Eve, after all.

It’s definitely a struggle to stay awake the next morning, but Jean manages, as he so often does, and while it’s not fun, it’s...well, it’s familiar.

And then his engine dies while he’s on the highway.

No warning whatsoever. It just _dies_ , with nothing but a weird hollow choking noise. Luckily, there aren’t many cars around, and he’s able to pull off the road into the shoulder without much difficulty.

It doesn’t change the fact that his car’s just crapped out on him. There’s nobody else inside, but he still panics anyway. He can’t remember whether any of the warning lights were on, which means it’s probably his fault for not checking.

With his leg already itching to bounce, he tries to start the cab again, to no avail. He gives it a rest, drums his fingers on the steering wheel, and tries again, finally giving in when nothing happens.

Jean’s knowledge of car mechanics is limited, so when he checks under the hood and checks a few things here and there, he’s not surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary. In the end, he calls the dispatcher, gives his location, and resists punching the radio when he’s told to sit tight and wait to be towed.

Someone must be out to get him, he decides, because this entire past week has been one miserable Murphy’s-law-abiding string of worst-case scenarios. He doesn’t know whether it’s at all possible for him to lose his job for this, but knowing his luck, he wouldn’t doubt it.

Then the tow truck arrives, and he wonders to himself if he spoke too soon.

 _Now_ he can say that this week has officially hit rock bottom, despite the fact that it’s only Wednesday. Now he can claim it and know it to be true, because the driver of the tow truck?

Is none other than Eren Jaeger.

+

Eren Jaeger is, without a doubt, the most obnoxious guy Jean has ever had the displeasure of meeting.

This is no exaggeration. Jean has met many people in his twenty years, a majority of them coming across as unpleasant in one way or another, but nobody manages to grate on his nerves in quite the same way.

It’s hard to pinpoint why. Jean likes to summarize it as the simple fact that Eren exists, but it’s likely a combination of factors. His loud, gratuitous opinions; his unbridled nosiness; his horribly untethered laugh. 

Sasha likes to say it’s because they’re so similar. Jean will argue and refute this opinion to his grave.

Jean met him the first day he began work at 104th Taxi Co., when Hanji, his boss, was explaining how the lot that served as a taxi garage also doubled as the tow truck station. Something about the owners being good friends. Jean hadn’t been listening, because Eren had opened his mouth, making his part in a far off conversation crystal clear to everyone standing within a hundred yards.

Nobody else seems to be bothered. Not by his lack of volume control, or his liberally offered opinions. And after a few weeks at 104th, it seems Jean is the only one who takes any real offence to them. Either having him around for long enough has desensitized them enough to accept him, or Jean is just particularly sensitive.

Probably both.

Jean takes care to avoid him as much as possible. He may not know that much about him, but he knows more than enough.

Eren Jaeger is a twenty-something year old in his first year of junior college. He has an obnoxious habit of starting ethical discussions out of nothing, a prosthetic in place of his left leg, and no regard for the concept of personal space.

There is no one more capable of being Jean’s main antagonist. 

+

Eren gives him a ride back, of course.

The truck is ridiculously cluttered, chock-full of books. It’s definitely not what he expected. Not that Jean has ever spent time wondering what the interior of Eren’s truck looks like. It’s just hard to imagine Eren sitting still long enough to read _anything_.

Jean’s not a big reader, but as far as he can tell, there are books of every genre. Fantasy, historical fiction. Comedy plays and scientific studies. Jean even spots a beat-up Harlequin paperback near his feet, when he leans forward to look through a pile of food wrappers.

On any other day, he might’ve been intrigued. Asked a few questions, made a few jabs, maybe. Right now, he only has the head space for one thing, and that’s getting back home.

Eren climbs in with a huff, nearly closing the door on his prosthetic in his rush. “Well, whatever you did, it’s fried,” he states, reaching for his keys.

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Jean mumbles half-heartedly, but Eren only offers a grimace, reaching for where his keys are still in the ignition.

“How’s your break been?” he asks.

“Shitty.”

Eren casts a sideways look at him. Jean keeps his eyes on the grimy window, his body pressed up as close as possible to the car door.

“You looking forward to being back at school? Pre-law, right?”

Jean shrugs, says nothing.

For a while after that, Eren stops trying to make conversation. The only thing preventing complete silence is the radio, which is blasting some god-awful pop music.

When Eren eventually reaches for the volume knob to turn it down, Jean doesn’t think much of it.

Then he opens his mouth.

“Look,” is what he starts with, flexing his knuckles and shifting in his seat. He shoots Jean a sideways glance, a restless frustration settling in his brow. “I don’t know if I said or did something to offend you, but if I did, I’m sorry.”

Jean tenses at that, shoulders rising a little. He’s never been one for confrontations. ”You haven’t-”

“There’s gotta be _something_. Every time I see you, you treat me like I’ve pissed you off! I can’t apologize if you don’t tell me what I did.”

“You haven’t done anything, Eren, it’s fine.”

Jean doesn’t need to look over to know what kind of constipated expression he’s sporting. The impatient huff says it all. “Don’t _bullshit_ me, man! If I did something, you need spit it out. And if I did, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything, Eren, so could you just drop it, okay-”

“ _Not_ okay! If I didn’t do anything, then what the hell is your problem? I fucking swear, talking to you is like pulling teeth-”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk-”

“Look, man, I can tell you’ve got some sort of beef with me. I’m not dense.”

Jean scoffs, but it must not come out as quietly as he intended, because Eren breaks off, hauling in another lungful of air.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem with me?" 

This time, Jean turns around. “My problem is not wanting to deal with your obnoxious ass! You’d have to be pretty fuckin’ dense not to know that."

Eren reels back, eyes wide. “Fuck you-”

“You haven’t done anything, alright? So just leave it the fuck _alone_.”

Jean turns back to the front window.

“I’m not just going to leave this alone,” Eren says. He’s one of _those_ guys, the ones who can never just leave things be. Figures. “Obviously you’ve got some sort of issue, so lets sort it out.”

But Jean refuses to engage, or even acknowledge Eren’s words. And after a while of ignoring him, Eren gives up.

“All-fucking-right, then,” he mutters. “Fucking ‘nothing.’ Sure.”

To be honest, Jean can’t say that he’s ever seen Eren angry. Not until now. From his tight grip on the steering wheel to the stiff set of his shoulders, it’s clear he’s pissed.

Jean would be lying if he said he didn’t find any satisfaction in that.

No more words are exchanged. The rest of the drive is silent. They part ways when Eren drops him off by the office (with a muttered “happy fucking holidays” under his breath), and by some incredible stroke of luck that transcends Jean’s unlucky reputation, Levi doesn’t fire him.

The repairs might end up being on his payroll, depending on what the mechanic says. Jean can’t even find it in him to be upset for that. He’s just glad to still have a job.

Hanji gives him a ride home. Jean unlocks his door, take his shoes off, then falls face-first into bed.

Within moments, he’s asleep.

+

Jean doesn’t actually mind being a cab driver, despite his doubt when Marco had landed him the job.

Yes, it does involve dealing with total strangers on a daily basis. Yes, it involves actually interacting with them, which requires him to at least be friendly, to a certain degree. And yeah, he’s heard the horror stories other drivers tell - the time Rico was threatened with a knife, countless times some asshole attempted to bail on the fare - but in all honesty? Jean likes the job.

It’s not something he sees himself doing for long. Definitely not something he’d want for the rest of his life, but on a temporary basis, it’s good. It pays okay, it keeps his mind off of things when he’s not doing homework, and Jean's not looking for much else.

+

On Friday morning Jean’s father calls. It catches him off-guard, right as he’s getting ready to leave for work. His conversation with Sasha pops into his head as he presses ‘ignore.’

He’s locking his door when Dad calls again.

“Jean,” Dad starts, before Jean can even get a word in. “I just rang you, I think my call was dropped."

“Hey, Dad,” Jean says. He forces the impatience out of his tone, stuffing his keys in his bag and leaning his forehead against the door. “Listen, I’m actually heading out right now-”

“Oh, great, I’ve caught you at a good time then. Listen, have you thought about that internship?”

 _Tell him you don’t want it,_ Sasha insists in his mind.

“Not really,” Jean lies. He stands up straight and slowly starts making the trek downstairs.

+

Jean has a coping mechanism for when he gets phone calls from his dad. As soon as he’s hung up, he’ll turn his phone off. Then, he’ll fill the teapot with water and set it on the stove. Once it boils, he’ll fill his waiting mug to the rim, then sit down at the table and breathe in the vapor until it’s cool enough to drink.

It’s his way of regaining control. It’s become a habit of his. A Thing. It’s almost instinctive, the way his hand reaches to light the stove. This is what he does to make sure he doesn’t end up in bed for days, skipping class with his phone off.

Occasionally, this will happen. Dad will call when he’s leaving, at a time when he doesn’t have the private sanctuary of his own kitchen. When he’s got places to be and things to do.

It sucks. 

He’s still in a funk when Sasha calls later that afternoon.

Jean’s weekends are usually reserved for studying. No work, no school. Just him and the solitude of his stuffy apartment. He likes it this way, likes the peace and quiet it affords him. Sometimes Sasha will come over and they’ll play video games, but beyond the blue light of their screens, Jean doesn’t get out much on weekends.

Anyway.

By the time he hangs up, she’s somehow talked him into hosting a moving marathon at his place. Star Wars, or some shit. Jean’s not even sure. All he knows is that he better be ready for some company tomorrow, because Sasha’s bringing people over tomorrow.

There’s one upside: they’re bringing food. That means he can put off his grocery shopping for another week, if he pushes it.

Still, waking up on Saturday morning to realize the living room still needs cleaning…it’s not quite the way he’d planned to spend his day off. Jean’s a messy person, though his is an organized messy. Piles of paper and books are neatly stacked, just not nice to look at. Plus, they’re easy to knock over, and Jean gets kind of anxious when people touch his stuff.

He’s eating breakfast and staring triumphantly around his clean living room when Sasha and Connie knock.

Sasha just looks at him. He’s still wearing his pajamas. “Hey, Jean-bo.”

Connie nods by way of greeting, rubbing his bleary eyes, and Jean lets them in, cradling his bowl of Froot Loops to his chest. He follows suit as they file into the kitchen, Sasha dumping a couple grocery bags onto the dining table as they pass.

“So who’s coming to this thing, anyway?” Jean mumbles around a mouthful of cereal. He slides into one of the chairs by the table, and Connie sits down beside him, poking through the plastic bags.

Sasha hops up on the counter and swings her legs cheerfully. She probably even took the dogs out for an early morning run while Connie was still sleeping. “Christa and Armin are coming for sure. Armin might bring his roommate, and I’m not too sure about Thomas, he hasn’t responded to my texts.”

“Have you even met Armin yet?” Connie asks. Jean shakes his head.

“You’ll like him,” Sasha says. “He’s real smart, super friendly - hang on, someone’s calling me.” She reaches into her sweatshirt pocket, then pads off into the living room to take the call. 

“How’ve you been since Bert moved out?”

Jean shrugs. “Meh.”

Connie looks at him over a bag of chips. “I can ask around, if you’re looking for a roommate.”

“No,” Jean says. “Don’t do that. Not yet, I’m still...yeah, I don’t know.”

“Wanna elaborate?”

Jean shakes his head. 

“M’kay. How’s work? Killed you yet? Sasha mentioned something about your car breaking down, that sucks.”

“Understatement of the year. It sucks ass. And I’m probably paying for the repairs out of pocket, my boss sucks.”

Connie laughs. Jean cracks a smile.

“What about you? You glad to get a break from the first graders?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty cute. I dunno. Teaching doesn’t get old with these guys. They’re kind of hilarious. Getting paint on my clothes isn’t, but that’s on me.”

Connie leans back with a yawn, gripping the table edge when his chair goes on two legs. Sasha returns, shoving her phone back into her sweatshirt pocket.

“That was Armin. He said they were having trouble finding the building, so I’m going out front to meet them.” she reaches over and ruffles Jean’s hair. “You gonna stay in your pj’s?”

“Does it matter?”

Sasha shrugs. “No, I’m just curious.”

“What are we even watching?”

Sasha heads for the door. “The Empire Strikes Back, to start.”

“Any particular reason you chose Star Wars?” Jean asks, using his sleeve to wipe up some spilled milk from the table.

“‘S the only thing I own, baby,” she calls, shutting the door behind her. 

Jean stares at his bowl. “But I don’t even have a working DVD player.”

Connie only shrugs in response. He drops his chair back down with a _thunk_ , then settles his folded arms down on the tabletop. “You been taking any pictures lately?”

Jean takes his bowl to the sink. “Yeah, a few. Why?”

“Someone at work was getting rid of something. I think you might like it.”

Connie rustles some more plastic. Jean’s jaw drops when he sees what Connie takes out. “Holy _shit_ , are you serious?" 

Connie grins. In his outstretched hand lies a vintage OneStep Polaroid SX-70. Jean rakes a hand through his bedhead and takes the camera it with gentle fingers, already turning it over to take a closer look.

“Are you _serious_?” he repeats.

“Comes with a box of film, too.”

Jean is speechless for several moments. “This wasn’t actually something you got from work,” he says, sounding strained. It’s not really a question.

Connie tilts his head. “Think of it as a late holiday gift.”

“But I didn’t get you anything!”

“Dude, don’t even start.” The look he gives Jean is stern. “I’m not asking you to, so chill.”

Jean’s gaze drifts down to his hands again. The camera is solid but not heavy in his fingers, pretty and in near-perfect condition. “Okay,” is what he says aloud.

To himself, he promises to find the perfect gift in return. 

+

It doesn’t take too long for the door to open again. This time, Sasha is flanked by two others.

Armin’s a nice enough guy. Tan, bespectacled, well-spoken, and very polite. But it doesn’t really matter when the friend he’s brought along is Eren Jaeger.

What are the fucking chances? Even _with_ Jean’s luck, this is ridiculous.

Armin goes to introduce him, but Eren holds up a hand. “Nah, we’ve already met.” His eyes are narrowed, his lips small.

“You have?” Sasha asks, from back in the kitchen. “Where?”

“Work,” Jean and Eren answer at the same time.

“Ah,” Armin says, his frown clearing. “I see.”

There’s a tense pause. Jean contemplates kicking him out of his house.

Luckily, Connie jumps in before anything else can happen. “So, shall we get this show on the road?”

+

Somehow, Armin manages to get the DVD playing on Jean’s laptop, and with a few tricks, he even gets it up on the TV screen.

For the first couple of movies, Eren and Jean don’t do much more than make stink eyes at each other from across the room, but halfway through _The Empire Strikes Back_ , something snaps.

They end up arguing over every other scene. About anything, it doesn’t matter. It seems like they’re able to find something to argue about nearly every other scene. After the movie is over and Eren has excused himself to the bathroom, Sasha grabs a hold of Jean’s shirt.

She drags him back to the hallway in front of his room. “What is the _matter_ with you?”

“What’s the matter with _me_? He’s the one-”

“You two were like a couple of second graders fighting over a swing set, Jesus Christ! I have never seen anything more petty-”

“ _Petty_?”

“Yes, _petty_ ,” Sasha hisses. “Would it kill you to just act civil towards him?”

“It might,” Jean snaps back, jamming his cold fingers into his armpits.

“Jean!”

He closes his mouth. 

“I’m not saying he wasn’t picking any fights. You both were, but...did something happen between you two?”

“I’m tired of seeing his obnoxious face! I’m tired of hearing him and his opinions about everything! He annoys the crap out of me, doesn’t he bug you?”

“Honestly, out of the two of you, _you’re_ the one who’s bugging me the most right now. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t make the connection, okay? If I had known, maybe I wouldn’t have told Armin to bring him over. But that in there?” she says, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder, “ _That_ was really gross.”

+

Things get a little better after that. Jean makes a conscious effort not to constantly argue with every little thing Eren says, and it pays off.

Christa finally shows up, and the pastries she brings definitely help lighten the mood.

It’s still irritating, especially when Eren starts poking around the living room and looking through Jean’s stuff. He’s nosy as hell, even if he does keep any comments to himself. They still squabble over random stuff.

But the air is less tense, and when the credits are rolling and they’ve gone through all the food, Jean’s not as grumpy as he might have expected.

When everybody’s getting ready to leave, Jean grabs a hold of Sasha shoulder. “So are we doing this again or what?”

Sasha looks surprised. “You want to?" 

Jean shrugs, instead of saying yes. “It wasn’t that bad,” he mumbles.

Sasha studies him for a moment, then nods. “I’d be up for that.” She turns to Armin. “You?”

Armin smiles. “Yeah! It was fun, I’d love to.”

Christa nods enthusiastically, and after they all say their goodbyes, Jean makes a note to keep next weekend free. 

+

“What the fuck,” Jean whines into his phone, the next Saturday morning. “What do you mean, you can’t come?”

“Dude, I’ve told you my work schedule like a million times. How are you even surprised?”

“Why can’t Connie come?”

“Connie’s prepping for work on Monday, plus the dogs are getting shots at the vet. Jeaannnnn, you should’ve _asked_.”

Jean groans.

“Look,” Sasha says, after a pause. “You’ll be fine. Armin’s coming, right? Just pick something good to watch.”

“You stink.”

“I’m sorry, Bo. Come over tomorrow and we can play some Mario Kart, okay?”

After some more grumbling on Jean’s end, Sasha hangs up. Grumpily, Jean sets about moving his laundry out of the living room, then wrangles himself into some pants.

Eren shows up. Alone.

“Where’s Armin?”

“He’s got a lecture today.”

He probably took it as a challenge, the little shit. Jean leaves the door open and goes to make himself a cup of tea. 

Eren follows him in. He’s brought a big backpack, which he now dumps on the kitchen table. He takes a seat beside it, not on a chair but on the table. Jean glares as he’s filling up the tea kettle. 

Eren either does not notice or chooses to pretend. “What are we watching?”

“I haven’t picked anything yet,” Jean says. He gets his laptop from the coffee table and they argue over what crappy Netflix movie to watch until the water boils.

Jean doesn’t offer Eren a mug. Eren doesn’t ask for one. They end up settling on _Airplane_ as a middle ground.

“I brought popcorn,” Eren says. He reaches for his backpack and wrestles out a popcorn maker.

“Jesus.”

Eren situates it on the kitchen counter and shoves away a stack of mail to make room for the plug. From his bag he also takes out a jar of corn kernels, vegetable oil, and a ziploc bag of some suspicious looking brownish-reddish powder.

“Don’t give me that look,” Eren protests. “They’re just spices.” He tosses the bag at Jean, who opens it only to inhale a lungful of cinnamon.

While he’s busy coughing and spilling his tea, Eren plugs the machine in, spoons some oil into the reservoir, and adds two kernels.

After a minute or so, the machine pops. Eren dumps some more kernels in and closes it up. As the popping gets really loud, he starts opening random cabinets.

“Hey, what the fuck?”

“You got any bowls?” Eren asks. 

Jean points across the kitchen to the dish rack.

“No, like, a big bowl. A mixing bowl.” he sighs at the blank stare Jean gives him. “Do you have a pot or something, at least?”

So they end up eating popcorn out of a pasta pot.

“What’d you do for New Years?” Eren asks, his mouth full. They’re waiting through the title screen of the movie. It must be backwards; aren’t the credits supposed to go at the end?

Jean shrugs, not all that interested in telling Eren all about how he sat around and did nothing at home.

“I hung out with Mikasa and my mom,” Eren goes on to say, even though Jean didn’t ask. “It was chill.”

 _Chill_. Ugh. Who even uses that word?

In the end, though, watching a movie with Eren isn’t so bad. The movie is ridiculous, funny in a way that leaves them both doubled over in near-tears.

Eren keeps putting his feet up on the coffee table, and Jean keeps shoving them off, until eventually Jean sort of _tackles_ him. He kind of throws his weight into Eren’s side and almost knocks him off the couch, taking him by surprise. A scuffle ensues, until Jean ends up on the floor with his cheek on the carpet and Eren’s butt on his back.

 _Airplane_ is followed by a bathroom break and another batch of popcorn. While they eat, Eren catches sight of Jean’s Wii setup, and then it’s straight to Super Smash after they’ve licked all traces of cinnamon sugar and washed their greasy fingers.

Lines are crossed a few times. Sometimes Eren doesn’t know when to let up, and Jean’s too bitter for his own good when it comes to certain things, so when Eren’s eventually kicked out of the apartment, it’s not _exactly_ on a good note. It’s actually on more of a ‘why did I even think this was a good idea in the first place’ note.

But then he runs into Eren at work. And instead of just gritting his teeth, he finds himself actually saying hello. 

+

The next Saturday, the first person to show up next saturday is Eren. He arrives early enough for Jean to still be in his sleeping sweater - a fuzzy, threadbare orange thing - and he’s snickering as he steps inside.

Jean flails a leg in his direction, misses, and closes the door. He finds Eren already having taken a seat on the floor in front of the couch, his head reclined against the seat cushions.

“I’m so _tired_ ,” he complains, lazily shifting his prosthetic leg under the coffee table. “And _hungry_.”

Jean responds by throwing a pillow at his face. Eren shoves it off, yawning.

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“I make it a point not to work on weekends,” Jean says.

Eren grumbles something under his breath. Mumble mumble _having the choice to make it a point_.

“You?” 

Eren scrunches his face testily. “I can’t. I’ve got a lot of my classes on weekends, so.” He lifts his head, moving his gaze around the room. It seems like the more comfortable Eren gets, the less reservations he has about being openly curious. “So are you in school, or what?”

“Pre-law,” Jean says. He sits on the couch and picks at the blanket.

Eren cranes his neck to look at him. “Huh.”

“What?” 

“You don’t really seem the type.” 

Jean doesn’t even try to guess what _that’s_ supposed to mean.

“I’m at SDSU,” Eren says, even though Jean didn’t ask. “English Lit, but I haven’t declared yet.”

This surprises Jean a little. To be completely honest, he’d kind of assumed Eren wasn’t in college.

And Eren? Restless, fidgety, too-loud Eren? Studying literature?

“Huh.”

Eren just shrugs.

“Does Armin go to SDSU too?”

“Nah. SDU. He’s doing Marine Science, but he skipped a grade in middle school, so he’s a Junior. Hey, you got anything to eat around here?”

Jean sits up sharply. “No." 

Eren’s already grabbing the couch arm to pull himself up. “Whaddya mean, ‘no?’ You’ve gotta have _something_.”

“Hey, we had an agreement! You bring food, and I provide the TV. Quit trying to freeload.”

“You stingy fuck, are you serious?” Eren groans. It’s...well, it’s not really morning anymore. 12:47 is what the clock on the monitor reads. And if Jean’s being completely honest, there probably isn’t anything is fridge that even comes close to a meal 

“Yeah, I’m serious.”

Jean pads over to the kitchen to check, just in case, and yep, sure enough, the only edible things his refrigerator hold are an expired jar of salsa and a bag of dried-out baby carrots.

Eren pokes his head over Jean’s shoulder to peer into the fridge, then barks out a laugh, right in his ear. “Do you even eat? God, you really are a living college student stereotype.”

“Hey, man, feel free to fuck off. No one’s stopping you.” He closes the fridge with an “accidental” elbow to Eren’s ribs."

Jean considers all the menus, held in place by colorful magnets his mom gifted him. After a moment, he reaches out and takes off Robertos, World Curry, and Sala Thai. “You pick,” he says, tossing them on the table. While Eren studies the papers, Jean takes his Fruit Loops out of the cabinet and pours himself a handful.

+

While they wait for their curry to arrive, Jean picks out a game for them to play. He doesn’t really think too much of it until he’s set up the first round. After that, it doesn’t take long to realize how much Eren sucks at video games.

It’s hilarious: no matter how hard he tries, or how intense he gets about it, all he seems to be capable of is falling into pitfalls and running at obstacles.

By the time Sasha’s knocking on the door, Eren’s already thrown a tantrum and “given up” three times.

They split the cost for the food. Jean clears off the coffee table and they huddle around it while Sasha tries to pick a movie.

“Hey,” Jean says, shooting Eren a warning glance after he tries to stick his fork in Jean’s container. “Watch it.”

Eren only gives him a strange look. Then he tries again, making off with some chicken.

Jean tries his best to keep his food away from him, but Eren’s somehow gotten it into his head that they’re sharing. For every bite he takes from Jean, Jean takes one of his in retaliation. In the end, they settle on passing the containers around, though not without a lot of amusement on Sasha’s part first.

+

When Eren leaves, Jean warns him grumpily to bring his own food next time.

Eren grins. “I’ll bring food, if you go grocery shopping,” he says, and then he’s out the door.

+

 _December 1st, 1999:_ Jean’s father moves out.

Jean is five years old.

A truck pulls into the driveway, and one by one, all of the things Maman and Papa agreed would be his get taken. A couches, a table, a few boxes of miscellaneous things.

Maman sets out a puzzle on the kitchen table for them to work on, but toddler Jean is too distracted by the commotion around him to focus for long.

Maman rests a hand on his back and watches. When the two men are done, Papa nods in their direction, and leaves.

+

Caller ID tells Jean his father is calling, but he doesn’t need to look to know. Only one person would be calling him at 7:30 on a Sunday night.

He answers because he doesn’t know how not to. 

The aftermath is not pleasant.

+

Eren stops mid-conversation when he sees Jean at work the next day. He waves frantically from across the parking lot. “Hey! Oi, Jean!”

Jean’s not in the mood. He’s got only one thing in mind, and that’s to clock out and go home. To demonstrate this, he ignores Eren’s insistent greeting. He shoves open the swinging door to the office, walking up to the table, where Levi doesn’t even look up from his papers.

Jean hands over the keys to the temporary cab they’ve been loaning him, then nearly smacks into Eren on the way out.

“Hey!” Eren says, looking annoyed. “Hey, didn’t you hear me? I was talking to you.”

Jean steps around him. Or tries to, at least, but Eren gets right in front of him, his face turned up and his chin high.

“Do you mind?” Jean huffs out. Eren shakes his head. “Eren, fuck off.”

“No!”

“Look, not today, okay? Just-”

“It’s never today! You know what I think? I think you’re _afraid_. I think you’re afraid of confrontation.”

If looks could kill, Eren would have disintegrated into nothing by now. Jean makes another move to get by, and this time, Eren grabs his arm.

“You two, get out,” Levi snaps from the desk. “Take it outside."

Jean rips his arm away and shoves his way past Eren and out the door.

“You’re a wimp,” Eren continues, following after him. “You’re a passive-aggressive _wimp_. Instead of talking about whatever it is that’s got you pissy, you just blow everything off and refuse to talk to anyone.”

Jean grits his teeth and refuses to let Eren bait him.

“That’s right, ignore me! Just walk away and ignore me, you jackass coward.”

 +

Jean should have just walked away. It’s just that he doesn’t take very kindly to people calling him a coward. There’s something about the word that just...

Really, though. He should have walked away.

How they end up at the rec center is beyond him. How they end up beside the pool, in the dark with the lights off, after having climbed a fence to get in is totally beyond him.

How Eren manages to coerce him into going skinny-dipping is well and truly a mystery to Jean.

Jean has his shoes off. With one toe he tests the water, then winces. “Fuck.”

Eren just watches, his arms crossed.

“I cannot fucking _believe_ I’m doing this.” Jean says, but there’s no backing down now. He strips off his shirt, unbuckles his belt and yanks off his pants, tossing them into a heap where it’s dry. He jumps in with his eyes closed and realizes, too late, that he forgot to take off his earrings.

He comes up with a splutter. Hugging himself with his arms, he treads water and blinks the chlorine out of his eyes. “Your turn,” he says.

Eren laughs.

“Who’s the real coward now?” Jean hisses through his chattering teeth. It’s a cheap shot, but with Eren, it works.

He pulls off his sweatshirt and shirt all at once, tossing them away, and then rolls up his left pants leg and parks his ass down. With practiced fingers he quickly takes off his prosthesis, then the liners that keep it in place. Carefully, he sets them aside and then shimmys out of his pants.

Jean watches, blowing bubbles with his mouth. Within seconds, Eren has jumped in beside him with a massive splash. They tread water, their heads bobbing on the surface.

After about a minute or so, Jean scoffs. “F-fuck you, I s-still win,” and they compete to see who can dunk the other under the water first.

+

It’s no surprise that they both end up sick. It really, really isn’t. Jean figures they kind of deserve it.

Two days later, when Jean’s just arrived at work, Mikasa approaches him. Without preamble, she holds out a tupperware container and says, “Here. This is for you.”

Jean can’t remember the last time she spoke more than two words to him. To say he is confused is an understatement. There was a point when he doubted she even knew his name.

After a long pause, during which Jean sniffs a lot and attempts to focus his fuzzy thoughts, Jean takes the container. He thinks back, trying to remember and wondering if he missed something in his fever-induced haze.

“I’m apologizing on Eren’s behalf,” Mikasa says. “For making you sick.”

She motions with her hand, gesturing at Jean vaguely. He assumes it’s his runny nose that she’s referring to, but he’s too light-headed to decide whether he should be offended or not.

“It’s soup,” Mikasa adds, after another awkward moment.

“Um,” Jean says. He reigns in his snot. “Um, why are you apologizing...?”

Mikasa remains as stoic as ever. “Eren, my brother?” She stares at him, then continues, even though he hasn’t responded. “It’s chicken noodle. You’re not vegetarian, are you? Or allergic to gluten?”

“No, thank you for asking, but you really don’t-”

“I know he talked you into it. You don’t need to defend him,” she says firmly.

Jean processes this, his eyes itching. A half-hearted “thanks” is what he comes up with, but Mikasa is already walking away.

He ends up stuffing the container in his backpack and forgetting about it until late that evening. He remembers it when he’s trying to find something to eat in his empty fridge, and after some hesitation, he heats some up in a saucepan.

Half-asleep, he stirs with a spoon until steam rises from its surface, and then takes a careful taste.

Without a doubt, it is the saltiest thing Jean has ever tasted. Gagging, he spits into the sink. Turning on the tap, he gulps down as much water as his stomach will allow, trying to rid himself of the rancid flavor.

 _Saltwater_ is blander than Mikasa’s “soup.”

+

Jean wakes up on Saturday morning feeling weak but better. He goes about his routine under the assumption that Eren will show up at some point or another. It isn’t until Eren comes banging on his door that it occurs to Jean that it might have been off.

They watch _Pacific Rim_ and argue over the logistics. The next week, they watch _Brave_ , and Eren falls asleep halfway through. The week after that is _Goodfellas_.

One day, Sasha calls him and asks if he’d be up for brunch. Jean begins to tell her that he can’t. That him and Eren are going to see _Kickass_ , and the words are halfway out of his mouth when he’s hit with their meaning.

Saturday movie nights with Eren are a Thing.

The realization hits Jean like a ton of bricks.

They’re a _Thing_ , with a capital ‘T’. Like the habitual way Jean reaches for Earl Grey after he’s hung up the phone is a Thing. Sasha overhearing Mariana call him Jean-bo when he was eleven, and the way she has used the pet name more than Jean’s own mother ever since: another Thing.

Small stuff, too: like how Jean can’t fall asleep if he’s wearing socks in bed.

It’s crept up on him. And he can hardly believe it, because it’s been...what, two months since Eren coming over has become a part of his life? So how?

How did Eren - Eren, and his loud breathing, and his haphazard way of kicking off his shoes, his spicy popcorn and his incessant movie commentary - how did he become a Thing without Jean realizing it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all feedback, positive or negative, will be greatly appreciated. leave a comment or find me on tumblr! (phoarda.tumblr.com)
> 
> ps: this was supposed to be short. SHORT. haha. hahahahahah


	2. Part 2A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: Eren and Jean get a little closer, Jean is an asshole and nobody takes any of his shit, lots of crying takes place, and finally some things get hashed out. Not that it necessarily does any good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here it is! this late-ass, cheesy-ass, old-ass chapter. i originaly planned to split this story up into 3 parts, but that would’ve taken another 6 months before the next update. so. here. this has been mostly written for a while. it’s only about half of part 2, so maybe… PART 2A? After i’ve done the entire second draft, it might read better as one big chapter. idk. i needed to just post something.
> 
> warnings for: nightmares, blood, a tiny drug mention (marijuana). let me know if theres anything i haven’t properly warned for/tagged.  
> The name of this fic comes from a song that I really like. It’s called Feeling Good by Nina Simone, look it up if you get the chance! it doesn't really have that much to do with the fic. but it's good nonetheless.

_They’re leaving him._

_Six-year-old Jean knows it, in the very pit of his being._

_They’re going to leave him in this landfill, with nothing but his forming hysteria and the clothes on his back._

_“Ne me quitte pas,” Jean cries. His father stands beside him, face turned away. Maman is here too. When he tries to grab her attention, she only smiles gently, kisses his cheek, and sets off on a climb to the garbage, away from him, joining Mariana and Sasha, who stand waiting for her further away._

_It stinks. Jean’s not wearing shoes, and he can feel something wet on the bottom of his foot, something sticky and slimy and cold. The smell is like a toxic gas, filling his lungs and the surrounding air. It suffocates him, almost as much as the thought of being left alone._

_Jean grabs at his fathers wrist, but no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t get a firm hold._

_“Please,” he begs. Fat tears wet his cheeks, intermingling with snot and sweat. “Please don’t leave me here.”_

_“Jean, let go.” His father steps away from Jean’s reach. “I have work to do. Clients to talk to, a meeting, and so much paperwork...you’ve no idea how busy I am today.” He shakes his head. “And I forgot to pick up some cilantro while I was at the store.”_

_Jean is unable to follow him. He is trapped, unable to keep up as Papa trudges through the decomposing landscape, farther and farther away. “No, no, no,” he whimpers, through choking sobs._

_Finally, he yanks his feet free. Whatever was holding them in place finally gives, be it debris or panic or something else, and with his momentum Jean finds himself falling forward onto his face. By the time he’s picked himself back up, they’re already out of sight, and Jean is alone in a sea of garbage._

_It stretches around him as far as his eyes can see, no end in sight. When he looks up, the sky is a muted purple, quickly fading into dark maroon, and he’s standing there, lost and alone, tasting salt on his tongue, when he hears the heavy_ crunch _._

_He feels the warm humidity form droplets of moisture on his neck before he hears the low growl._

_He doesn’t even look behind him, doesn’t even take a breath, just breaks into a run. With wobbly knees he carries himself, never daring to pause or stop or look, even though he can_ hear _it behind him, never more than a few paces behind, hot on his trail, growling and breathing and something else, a a crunching, sand against stone sound Jean has no time to try and figure out._

_It's teeth are made of arrowheads. It's the last thing Jean sees before it’s mouth closes around him, and everything goes dark._

+

Jean wakes with a gasp, cold sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. He jerks up into a sitting position and scrambles for the bedside light, nearly knocking it over in his haste to find the switch. He sits in the semi-darkness until his breath evens out, until his chest is no longer heaving and he can finally breathe again.

He looks back at the table. The clock reads 3:46 AM. Jean drops his head down, pulling his knees close, sticking his nose between his legs and breathing in the laundry detergent scent of the sheets.

The smell of the landfill is still strong in his lungs.

“But Dad hates cilantro,” he mumbles. The neon red colon blinks at him, unresponsive, only indicating that his alarm has yet to go off.

His subconscious is totally fucking him over.

It chooses the next moment to remind him exactly what he’s talking about. To an inanimate bundle of wires and plastic, no less.

God, does he hate dreaming.

Shoving the covers off, Jean climbs out of bed.

+

“We already ordered from Luigi’s. Plus, that would mean pizza, _again_ , and I’m tired of pizza.”

Jean groans. Not only is he exasperated beyond belief, he’s exhausted, too. So while he’s hungry enough to pick up the phone himself and just order already, he’s too damn _tired_ to argue with Eren over what kind of food to eat. “Just pick something, for fucks sake,” he says, laying his head on the table. Then, as an afterthought: “Please.”

Eren looks over, raising an eyebrow, Jean’s phone in his hand. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Jean sighs, prompting Eren to look up again, this time giving Jean a once-over. “There’s a place called Cali Baguette Annie’s always talking about, but, like...if you want me to leave, you can just say so, you know.”

“‘S not that,” Jean mumbles. “Just tired, that’s all.

“If you say so. You’re not gonna go all grump-ass on me again, are you?” Eren slides the phone over, his fingers immediately beginning to tap out a beat on the table in front of him now that his hands are empty. “You up for Bahn Mi?”

Jean peers at the phone, flicking through the images. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Vietnamese sandwiches. Meat and pickled veggies in a baguette.”

Well, whatever it it, Jean’s hungry enough that he’s just going to trust Eren’s judgement and be done with it. “Fine. Just make sure mine doesn’t have any carrots in it.” He hands back the phone.

While Eren dials the number, Jean slinks off his chair and drags himself over to the couch. With some effort, he manages to untangle the threadbare blanket strewn across it and crawl underneath. He closes his eyes, his foggy brain already filtering out Eren’s voice.

Jean’s already half-asleep when Eren comes into the living room and sits down on Jean’s back.

“You fucker,” Jean grunts from underneath him. As he has quickly realized in the past few months, Eren weighs more than he looks like he does. He may not be particularly tall - shorter than Jean by quite a bit, actually - but he packs a lot of muscle, the kind that manifests in the form of a stocky upper chest and beefy biceps.

There is no better way to describe Eren than to say that he is built like a brick oven. He is short. He is solid. And he generates heat like he was made to.

Side by side, they make for an interesting contrast. Jean, pale and weedy, and Eren, dark and solid. Jean has long, bony fingers: Eren’s are stubby and rough. Jean’s an overthinker, and Eren’s the guy who approaches things head-on, without hesitation. When they wrestle, Jean’s the one who gets by with sharp jabs and hard pinches. Eren just uses his weight to hold him in place.

Like now.

“So do you wanna play some video games or are you just going to nap away your day?”

“Nap,” Jean huffs out, but he takes the remote Eren offers him anyway.

“You gonna go to Connie’s for the dinner party next week?”

“You gonna get off anytime soon?” Eren leans over, waggling his eyebrows, and Jean takes advantage of the shift to shove him off. “Not like that, you jackass.”

Eren snorts. “Seriously though, are you going?”

“Duh,” Jean says, trying (and failing) to get his blanket back from underneath Eren.

“You need a ride?”

“Why? You offering?”

Eren shrugs.

“Yeah, I do.”

“‘Kay.”

+

After Eren realized that Jean took the bus to work every day, he’d offered to give him a ride, seeing as “your house is on the way, anyways.”

Well. “Offered.” More like insisted.

Jean took the offer up after his second week, because to be perfectly honest, he was never against the idea in the first place.

+

They play quietly for a little while after that, with Jean’s feet under Eren’s butt and the blanket draped over their legs.

When Jean ends up lapping him for the third time, Eren gives up. He tosses his controller aside and covers Jean’s face with his sweaty hand.

“What?”

“I’m done playing this.”

“Okay.” Jean blinks, his eyelashes brushing Eren’s palm. “Is there a reason you had to stick your hand in my face?”

The buzzer for the doorbell rings. They both immediately react, moving to get off the couch, but Eren uses Jean’s face for leverage, and ends up pushing him back down.

“It’s my turn, you shithead!” Jean whines from the couch. Eren’s grabs his wallet from his jacket and heads out the door. When he comes back, kicking the door closed with his heel, he’s got a plastic take-out bag hanging from one wrist. He falls back down beside Jean and tosses a wrapped-up sandwich into his lap.

“Fuck you.”

“Why can’t you just be grateful?”

“Today was my turn and you know it,” Jean says, grumpily peeling back the paper from his food.

He finds that he likes bahn mi.

As he also finds out, crumbs will get everywhere when you don’t eat over a plate. And after Jean’s finished brushing bread off of himself, he finds banh mi to have made him incredibly sleepy.

“Jean, are you even going to last ten minutes?”

“Shut up and just put it on.”

About a half-hour into Fight Club, Jean falls asleep.

+

_This time it’s an amusement park._

_He’s six again - he always is, in these dreams, something about this age that his subconscious seems to be stuck on - and he’s holding his mother’s hand as she leads him along._

_The attractions and booths around them are painted with bright, cheerful colors, vibrant and eye-catching, but they’re all deserted._

_Maman seems on-edge. Jean tugs on her hand, asks her a question, but she doesn’t even acknowledge having heard him. Her eyes are anxious, flitting around at everything they pass. A cotton candy stand, a puppet show stage, a merry-go-round._

_They pass a ferris wheel. The six-year-old in Jean wants to stop and look; it’s the tallest thing they’ve seen so far, and it draws his attention like a magnet, because it’s the only thing moving in the entire still, silent park._

_Maman does not let him stare for long. She does not pause or break stride, pulling him along at a pace that’s too quick for his short legs, forcing him to break into a run every so often to keep up._

_Still, he looks back. There’s a figure, perched on one of the seats, but it’s hard to make out what it is until it reaches the top. It looks...it looks like a bird, but it can’t be a bird, it’s far too big for that-_

_Jean shrieks. Maman drops his hand, and the figure jumps, dropping down towards him in one fell swoop._

_A sob stuck mid-throat, Jean turns around only to find that his mother has disappeared. He runs, but he is no match for something of that speed, and he can’t escape the talon as it grips onto his-_

“Wake _up_ , Jean!”

+

And then he’s ripped awake, gasping for air.

He opens his eyes and is immediately met with Eren’s face. It’s too much, too close, and he can still feel it, still feel its claws on his shoulder, digging into collarbone hard enough to pierce skin, and so reflex takes over and he _shoves_.

While the backs of Eren’s knees hit the edge of the coffee table and he spits out a stream of curses, Jean scrambles to sit up. He’s still on the couch, with the afghan twisted around his legs.

Fixing Eren with his most pointed glare, Jean crosses his arms and pretends he’s not quivering like a leaf. “What the hell are you _doing_?”

“Fuck, ow,” Eren complains. He steps forward, rubbing his leg. “You were having a nightmare or something-”

“Why the fuck would you-”

“Do you remember any of it?” Eren asks, squatting beside the bed. His eyes are wide and earnest, as though Jean isn’t flipping his shit over the fact that this is actually happening. “You were talking in your sleep, you know-”

Jean ignores the question. He feels completely naked, his skin crawling with how completely he’s been caught off guard. Disoriented and very upset, his defence mechanism kicks in. “Real fucking creepy, Eren.”

Eren finally clues in a little. His eyebrows furrow. “Hey-”

“God, do you...can you just, back _off_ a little?” Jean says.

And finally, he does. He leans back and raises his hands in placating gesture. “Fucking fine, okay? All you had to do was ask.”

Jean closes his stinging eyes and rubs them with his fingers, hard enough to see spots when he finally opens them again. He tips his head back and huffs out a shaky, impatient sigh.

“You know what?” Eren says, standing up, “I’m sorry.” And he does kind of look it, his mouth drawn in a regretful grimace. “I was just trying to help. Look, just...go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you up.” He hands Jean a pillow from the floor, then scoots off to his little pile of blankets in front of the TV.

Jean doesn’t look away from the ceiling for a while. When he finally does, Eren’s folded up the blankets into a messy pile, shoved his sweatshirt back on, and fished his socks out from under the coffee table.

“Wait, I - you...you don’t have to leave,” Jean says weakly, but Eren’s already shaking his head.

“It’s fine,” Eren says, and there’s something unreadable in his tone, in the way he won’t look over anymore. “Good night, Jean.” He grabs his coat and leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Jean lies awake with the uneasy feeling that too much has been left unsaid.

+

Some Saturdays, Eren doesn’t come over until late. Usually it’s so that he can get his homework done first, or to help Armin with whatever beach specimen he’s decided to research. On the days he comes over past 4, he almost always ends up sleeping over.

The first few times Eren fell asleep halfway through a movie had proven to Jean that it was nearly impossible to rouse him. With some effort and no small amount of pinching, he could get Eren to leave, but after he returned from a bathroom break one day to find Eren already fast asleep in a puddle of his own drool, Jean gave up.

It isn’t that Eren doesn’t _try_ to stay awake. He tries, he really does, but whether it’s mid-episode or almost through a movie, as soon as 10:30 rolls around, he’s out like a light.

So Jean lets him sleep, and sometimes, if he’s tired enough, he gets a few hours of shut-eye himself.

As a result of their early bedtime, they end up waking early the next day, and after Eren turns on the TV one morning to see what’s on, they end up making a Thing of Sunday morning cartoons.

Despite the fact that Jean’s never been a fan of being awake for dawn, he doesn’t mind having Eren over at half-past six. With Adventure Time delaying most conversation until he’s sufficiently awake, it’s actually pretty nice not to wake up to an empty apartment, even if it does come with having to wrestle off a frisky Eren once in a while.

And as for Eren - well, Jean has never asked, but he must be OK with it if he never makes any attempts to leave before he falls asleep.

+

“Tell me about Armin,” Jean mumbles around his Coco Puffs. It’s 7:42 AM on an early March morning, and the TV is muted for commercial breaks.

Eren balances his empty bowl on the armrest of the couch, his hands cradling the empty air around it. “Well,” he says, tipping his head back to face Jean, “He’s my roommate, but you already knew that.”

He’s quiet for a minute, and Jean waits, redoing his blanket burrito.

“Armin is super smart. I grew up with him, we were neighbors when we were kids, and he’s always been that way. He was always reading or researching something, always asking questions. He’s studying marine biology - that, you already know. Um…” he trails off, stretching his legs. “I’ve known him forever. A lot of people think he’s just a brain, but honestly? There’s way more. He’s the guy who all librarians hate because he never remembers to bring his book in on time and he never has the money to pay the late fee.”

Jean cracks a smile at that, then tries to mask its goofiness by occupying himself with another spoonful of cereal.

“Most people don’t realize that he’s got a wicked sense of humor. I mean, to be totally honest with you, a lot of his jokes go way over my head, but if you ask him to explain?” Eren shakes his head. “Seriously, he’s hilarious.”

Jean takes in this new information and tries to match it to the bespectacled, ever-so-serious Armin.

“He’s really bad at poker,” Eren says with a snort. “No joke - he _sucks_. He can’t keep a straight face, so you can always tell when he’s got a winning hand. And we’re both slobs. Between the two of us, our place is a complete dump.”

“You guys are close,” Jean says, and it’s a statement more than anything else. Eren shrugs.

“Well, yeah. We’ve been there for each other, we’ve known each other since we were in diapers, and we live together.” He pulls his gaze away from his socks, shooting a sharp glance over at Jean. “Why do you wanna know, anyway? You into him or somethin’?”

Milk dribbles down Jean’s chin, as he hurriedly sits up to face Eren. “What - no! I was just curious!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jean bites back. “I barely know him, you dick.”

They both pause for a second, Jean wiping his face while Eren just looks at him.

“Not because he’s a guy?” Eren asks without inflection, after several more moments of squinty-eyed scrutiny.

Jean takes his time. He finishes his cereal, places his bowl on the coffee table, and crosses his arms. With his back straight and his head high, he meets Eren’s gaze. “Nope. You got a beef with that?”

Eren stares for even longer, to the point where Jean starts getting uncomfortable. And then his face splits into an enormous grin, and he starts laughing.

Jean doesn’t know what to make of it. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I’m gay, you asshole,” Eren manages between wheezes. “Like, fucking - I’m Gay with a capital ‘G’, Jean. More homo than the milk in your fridge. Holy shit, this is hysterical-” and then he goes off into another fit of giggles that send him falling backwards off the couch.

“Seriously?” Jean says. He scoots over to Eren’s side and jams a foot into his ribs, and soon enough is pulled down and wrestled off. They roll around on the floor for a little while, until Eren finds himself comfortably seated on Jean’s stomach.

“Well, it’s probably a good thing you’re not into Armin,” he says, out of breath and still grinning a little. “He’s ace as fuck, you know.”

“Oh,” Jean says. Eren laughs, pinches Jean's ear, and rolls away.

+

The week passes, and with each day that goes by, Jean’s sleeping pattern begins to deteriorate bit by bit. By the time Saturday rolls around again, it’s gotten to the point where Jean gets two hours a night and five half-hour naps throughout the day.

Maman somehow knows, without him having to tell her. She tries to get him to take Nyquil, but there’s no way Jean’s even touching that stuff _ever_ _again_ , not after the freakishly vivid dreams it induced last time.

Work is scary. Lack of sleep results in difficulty concentrating on anything, and that can only mean the worst when he’s on the freeway. And while it is terrifying, it doesn’t change the simple fact that Jean’s just can’t _sleep_.

So when Eren comes over, Jean’s running on baked pita chips, Earl Grey, and the sheer force of will that it takes to stay standing. Jean takes the couch (Eren always insists on sleeping on the floor, despite the fact that Jean _has a bed_ ) and fully expects to crash for a good twelve hours or so.

He’s that tired. He’s been tired for weeks, and it’s no longer a struggle to keep his eyes open. Instead, the hard part is trying to close them.

And having Eren there to fall asleep in ten seconds flat does help. His rhythmic snoring combined with the TV’s low volume is white noise to Jean’s ears, a comforting way to fill the silence of his empty apartment. So Jean falls asleep, nestled in between the couch cushions with his socks off and a blanket pulled over his face.

His last triumphant thoughts before he finally goes unconscious is: _thank fucking God this is finally over_.

+

He spoke too soon, he realizes when he wakes up at half past two, the TV off and the room dark. The churning in his stomach knows that this shitfest isn’t over yet.

+

The moment Jean stumbles into the kitchen the next morning, Eren immediately knows something is off. And it doesn’t just have to do with seeing him bump his hip into the corner of the table, _twice_ , nor the string of French curses he lets out after accidentally spilling sugar all across the kitchen floor.

For as long as Eren has known him, Jean’s had dark half-moon marks under his eyes, imprints that give away his lack of sleep. They’re not unusual, but this morning, they seem to stand out more. They look like bruises, and they look awful, stark and ghoul-like against the sharp paleness of his cheekbones.

There’s more. More careful observation, and Eren sees him sway on his feet once. When he trips over a chair and almost spills his mug on his way to take a seat, Eren isn’t even close to laughing, not even with Jean’s glower daring him to.

“What’s wrong?”

Jean ignores him. Eren clears his throat.

“Jean-”

“Can you _not_?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t, but you look like _crap_ , dude.”

Eren watches as Jean jerks back, slamming his mug on the table. He’s burned his tongue. Of course he has. “Son of a bi-”

“Jean?”

Jean stops. His posture stiff, his face taking on an ugly shade of pink. “Can you take a fucking hint for once in your life and back the _fuck_ off?”

Eren bristles, standing a little straighter now that Jean’s starting to piss him off. He’s confused. He doesn’t know where this is coming from, or why Jean’s getting so aggressive. After all, he just wants to help.

But now Jean’s gone and made it personal.

“Hey, _asshole_!” Eren says, finally raising his voice. Jean ignores him, stalking over to the sink to dump his tea down the drain. “What the hell is the matter with you?"

Jean fixes him with a glare. “Back. The. Fuck. Off. Eren!” he stalks off without another word.

Eren falls back into his seat, breathing hard, winded. Something sticks in his ribcage, preventing him from taking a steady breath. He’s lost his appetite, but Eren Jaeger has never been one to waste food, so he forces down the remainder of his grapefruit and toast. After he’s done, he tosses the rinds, washes his hands, and hunts his keys down from the stack of papers by the door.

He decides to wait in the truck. And when Jean emerges from the building and pauses by the door, as though debating whether or not to take the bus, Eren sticks his head out the window to shout, “Get in the truck, asshole,” and that’s that.

+

It’s not until they’re back where they started - sitting in the dark of the truck, parked in front of Jean’s apartment with the engine off - that they speak to each other again.

And it takes ten minutes of sitting there in the strained silence, both of them refusing to get out, until Jean finally clears his throat.

“Eren, I’m sorry about earlier.”

‘I’m sorry’ comes out sounding choked. Jean pulls his jacket tighter around himself and avoids eye contact, knowing that if he looks over Eren will be right up in his face, staring him down with all the intimidation of an angry bull.

“It’s whatever,” Eren mumbles, after a long pause. Jean risks a glance to find him pointedly glaring out the window. “I mean, you were being a dick, but whatever.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re being a dick now, so I guess that makes us even.” He opens his door and climbs out.

Eren cranes his neck over the gearshift. “See you tomorrow, dickface.”

Jean rolls his eyes again, firmly shutting the door. “Asshole,” he mutters under his breath, stepping back to allow Eren enough room to pull out.

It’s a weird way to make up, he thinks, but it seems to work for them.

+

Dad calls the next morning. It’s not unheard of for him to check in, but Jean’s head starts to ache regardless. He manages to avoid any mention of the internship.

He brews some chamomile afterwards, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It stays with him through to the next day, itchy-bitter and unpleasant on his tongue.

+

Him and Eren have lunch together at work, sometimes. When their lunch breaks coincide.

This is one of those times.

Eren’s lunch today consists of an enormous serving of salad and a container of fried rice. Jean’s limp PB&J pales in comparison.

Well, let’s face it. His wonder bread is pale enough already.

They’ve settled on the bed of Eren’s truck, with Jean laying on his back and Eren perched beside him, a Tupperware container balanced on his knees.

“So what’s up? You’re...weirdly quiet today.”

Jean shrugs, knowing that his scowl speaks lengths by itself. He stares at  the crumbs on his chest, but has no energy to brush them off.

Eren does it for him, but is too careless to get them all. “When do you clock out tonight?”

Jean looks up, finding something strange in Eren’s tone. The half-peeled crust of his sandwich curls up into the palm of his hand. “What?”

“What time does your shift run until?”

“I don’t know. Two-thirty?  I have class,” Jean says, feeling peevish without knowing why.

Eren frowns.

“Why?”

“Nevermind.”

Jean’s rubs his nose, just stubborn enough not to ask.

+

Eren shows up at his door without warning, not twenty minutes after Jean gets home from school.

“C’mon, I’m taking you somewhere,” is what he says by way of greeting. When Jean doesn’t move, and instead boggles at him from the bed, Eren slaps his leg. “Right now, lets go.”

“What the hell?”

Eren makes an impatient gesture with his hands.

“You can’t just come in whenever you want! What the hell?”

“So lock your door, then.”

“What the _fuck_ , Eren?”

Jean kicks him when he tries to grab his ankle.

“Are you high right now?”

Eren goes from casual to indignant in 0.05 seconds. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You show up at my house, without knocking, like a fucking weirdo-”

“I'm not a pothead, okay, I don't even smoke, and _you’re_ the wei-” Eren breaks off, shakes his head. “Look, you’re angry, right?”

“ _Yeah_ , I’m fucking angry-”

“Then let’s go.”

“What? No, Eren.”

Eren sets his jaw. “Don’t make me fuckin’ carry you.”

“Get out of my room now, you dick!”

Jean ends up being carried to the truck, right over Eren’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He struggles until he’s tired, then gives up, pissed as all hell.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Jean says.

Eren hoists him into the passenger seat, drops Jean’s sneakers into his lap, then slams the door closed. “ _You’re_ ridiculous,” he shoots back, after settling into his own seat.

“Eren, do I really have to deal with your shit today?”

“Save it for when we get _where_?”

+

“I’m not going on a hike with you,” Jean says. Eren pulls his keys from the engine. “I’m not getting out of this car.”

Cowles Mountain is where Eren has taken him. They’re parked in the lot by the visitor center down below.

Eren takes his seat belt off. “Put your shoes on.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not driving you home.”

“I’m not getting out of this car.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

“Or, I could call Sasha-”

“With your phone? Which you left at home?”

Jean scrambles to pat his empty pockets. With a huff, he jerks back against his seat cushion, feeling the pulsing behind his eyes already start to settle in.

Jean considers his situation for a moment. Then he puts his shoes on.

“Let’s go.”

They hike the mountain.

They hike, and it’s mostly silent. By the time they’ve reached the top, Jean’s sweaty, cranky, and thirsty. He’s cursed Eren’s name a thousand and one times, then a hundred more for each time Eren has to stop and let him catch up.

It sucks. By the time they’ve reached the top, Jean’s dreading the trip down.

“Okay,” Eren says, after they’ve caught their breath for a few minutes, and he’s readjusted his leg. His eyes are shiny, his hair a mess. “Nobody here, right?”

Cowles Mountain, at it’s peak, overlooks much of San Diego. It’s - well, it’s the top of a mountain. It’s an impressive view, especially with the skies clear and blue. Dirt and a few sad-looking bushes surround the immediate area, and then the summit drops, and the city extends all around. There’s a large bronze plaque, set into a shoulder-height boulder. It states where they’re standing to be the highest point in the City of San Diego, at 1591 feet above sea level.

Jean wipes the itchy sweat from his temples. It’s approaching summer, after all, and he can already feel the sunburn settling across his flushed face. “So, what? You brought me here for the view?”

“No. I brought you here because I want you to try something.” Eren does another careful scan of the area before he moves closer to the edge, where the mountain begins to taper down, covered in shrubs and small rocks.

Jean waits.

“That’s Mexico,” Eren says, looking back at him while pointing with his finger. “You see it?”

He turns to face forward again before Jean can answer. He takes in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then, without any warning, releases an incoherent string of vowels as loudly as his voice will allow.

The sound startles Jean to the bone. He has to regain his balance, even. “Eren, what-”

Eren roars again, drowning out Jean's question, but this time the vowels form words. "I WISH I DIDN'T FEEL SO FUCKING HELPLESS! I WISH THAT MIKASA WOULD ACTUALLY COME AND FUCKING VISIT MOM ONCE IN A WHILE AND THAT MOM COULD ACTUALLY GET OUT OF THE HOUSE ON HER OWN! _Y ENCIMA DE TODO LO DEMÁS, NO ENTIENDO PORQUE ESTE MALDITO IDIOTA TIENE QUE SER TAN DIFÍCIL CONMIGO_!”

Jean can understand enough Spanish to know what someone’s talking shit about him. As Eren steps back, he gets over the initial shock and glares.

“You turn,” Eren says, his voice rough, back at it’s normal volume. “But the quicker, the better, ‘cos who knows when the next hiker’s gonna show up, and I don’t wanna have to try and awkwardly explain this shit.”

Jean shakes his head, and Eren sighs.

“Look, you don’t want to talk about this shit? Fine. You don’t want to tell me what crawled up your ass and died? Whatever. But you gotta do something, so,” he says, and gestures to the open space. “Just try it.”

Despite himself, Jean takes a step forward. And even though Eren is ridiculous, even though this whole thing is ridiculous, a part of him just wants to say screw it, whatever, why not?

It takes him a minute to gather himself.

“Jean.”

“Fuck,” is what comes out, breathless and quiet and courage immediately gone as soon as the word puffs out. He tries again. “Fuck you, Dad.”

It’s not very loud. It’s barely any louder than his regular speaking volume, but it’s the first time the words have ever come past his lips, and that alone makes them too much for him. Too loud, too telling, they make him wince.

“Louder than that,” Eren says.

Jean bites back his irritation and takes another breath. “Fuck. You.”

“You’re not even trying!” Eren gripes.

Jean’s fingers curl in his palm. His chest swells with frustration, with hot and blinding anger, because that’s exactly it, isn’t it? He’s always trying, always aiming to please and just falling short, and he’s fucking tired of it, tired of being tired and wishing he’d get some space-

He jerks forward a little. “FUCK YOU!”

And finally, Eren is silent.

"FUCK YOU AND YOUR PRESSURE! FUCK YOU AND YOUR OPPORTUNITIES AND YOUR JOB PROSPECTS AND YOUR BULLSHIT! FUCK YOU AND YOUR DISAPPOINTMENT AND YOUR LECTURES AND YOUR FAKE CONCERN!

"FUCK YOU! STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME FEEL GUILTY AND FUCK OFF WITH YOUR SHITTY OPINIONS THAT I NEVER FUCKING ASKED FOR!"

Jean pauses, his eyes stinging. "I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY, OKAY? I'M FUCKING SORRY FOR NOT LIVING UP TO YOUR NAME AND YOUR EXPECTATIONS, DAMN IT, I'M SORRY FOR NOT BEING GOOD ENOUGH. I'M SORRY FOR BEING THE SHITTY SON YOU DIDN’T ASK FOR, SO GIVE UP ALREADY, _FUCK_!"

"I NEVER WANTED TO DO THIS! I ONLY WENT WITH IT BECAUSE YOU MADE IT BE THE ONLY OPTION I HAD! I DON'T WANT TO BE A FUCKING LAWYER! QUIT DRAGGING ME THROUGH LAW SCHOOL! I DON'T WANT IT, I DON'T FUCKING _WANT IT_ AND I'M SORRY! BUT I'M A FUCKING ADULT AND YOU SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO MAKE ME FEEL THIS FUCKING INSIGNIFICANT ANYMORE, YOU SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO MAKE ME MISERABLE WITH A PHONE CALL AND YOUR FUCKING CLUELESSNESS!

"I HATE FEELING LIKE THIS! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU FOR DOING THIS TO ME!" Jean shouts, almost sobs, his voice cracking under the strain. A rock near his foot catches his eye, and without pause, he bends and picks it up, drawing his arm back and throwing it as hard as he can. He watches it sail through the air, far enough that he loses track of it, but it's not enough.

It doesn’t even come close to being enough.

“Fuck,” he says, plainly this time, all magnitude gone. He turns and drops his gaze, making a move towards the trail leading back down, but Eren places a hand on his arm, stilling him, fingers pressing softly into the crook of his elbow.

For some reason, Jean snaps. For some reason, Eren's hand on his arm angers him _so much_ , so much that his head feels light and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, so he yanks his arm away, or tries to, but Eren doesn't even falter, just reaches out with his other hand and grabs him again-

And then before you know it, they’re wrestling, Eren trying to keep him contained as Jean tries to throw him off, their feet creating clouds of dust as they try to gain leverage on each other. Eren has the upper hand, and it’s not long before they end up sprawled out on the ground, Jean pinned under his full force.

After a little while, Eren manages to get a hold of his wrists, and after that, Jean's pretty much immobile. Combined with Eren's weight, his movement is reduced to a very minimal wriggling.

"Stop," Eren grunts. Sweat beads at his temple, a drop curving down his cheek to drip onto Jean's shirt.

Gasping for air, completely spent, both physically and emotionally, Jean finally gives in.

His head drops back painfully, and it’s a struggle to catch his breath. Both of them breathe heavily for while, and then Eren grabs Jean's right hand in his own. For a strange moment Jean thinks he's going to lace their fingers together, but no, instead, Eren simply presses their hands onto Jean's chest, palms down with Eren's on top.

Jean pants, looking down to where their hands are joined, right over his heart.

"I want you to cool your head for a second and just feel it,” Eren says.

Jean wants to punch him in the face. But he takes a deep breath anyway, and tries to do as Eren asks. It takes him a few confused seconds to figure it out. It’s Jean’s heartbeat that Eren wants him to feel.

“See?” Eren says, his eyebrows raised. Jean just narrows his eyes and purses his lips.

Eren lifts Jean's hand again, and this time, he presses it to his own chest, pressing it firmly against the soft fabric of his shirt. Eren's heart beats steadier than his, a heavy, continuous _thump thump_.

"Do you know what it means, Jean?" Eren says. "It means I'm alive." He lets go of Jean's hand and lets it fall to the warm dirt beside them. "It means you're alive to feel it. And guess what? It's gonna be there, even if your dad doesn't think you're ‘enough.’ It's gonna be there, even if you don't have a ‘real job’ or a college degree. It's not gonna give a shit whether someone's disappointed in you, because its job is just to pump blood through your veins."

And in some convoluted way, Jean gets it. Despite Eren's cheesiness and the residual frustration churning in Jean’s stomach, he gets what Eren's saying, what he's doing. He's grounding Jean, the way tea is usually supposed to. It works in the same way to remind Jean that he’s living - that even if it feels like the world is crumbling around him, so long as he's still breathing, he's going to be okay.

"Do you...do you get what I'm saying?"

Jean fixes his gaze back on Eren. Eren, with his emotive green eyes and bushy eyebrows that meet in the middle. He still has one of Jean's arms pinned, and it’s starting to go numb under the pressure.

Yeah, he gets it.

With his free hand, Jean pinches his ear.

Eren instantly reels back with a gasp, batting Jean away with a flick of his wrist. "Oooow, what the hell?"

Jean snorts. "You're a melodramatic _prick_ , you know that?"

"Oh, fuck you," Eren says, but he's grinning. They both are. He extends a hand to slap Jean back, but Jean smacks it away before it can get too near, which leads to another scuffle as they fight for control.

After a while, Eren sits back, and Jean lets his hands fall, and once they regain their breath for a moment, Jean begins to laugh. Eren giggles, then snorts, and before long, he’s laughing, too.

Jean laughs at the absurdity of the situation. At how his antagonist, the one guy he can always depend on for an opposition and an argument, is comforting him. He laughs at himself: at how long he's been scared to say the words "fuck you" anywhere outside of his own head, and the fact that it took the ridiculous act of Eren forcing him to climb a mountain to realize it.

Mostly, though, he laughs because it feels good to laugh. It feels great to let his chest open up, to feel his chest rumble and hear happy sounds spill out.

He laughs and laughs and laughs until he realizes Eren's not laughing anymore. He laughs some more, and then confusion sets in as he tries to figure out why Eren sobered up so quickly.

His eyes are set on a spot over Jean’s shoulder, and his expression is dead serious.

“What?” Jean asks, the last of his giggles dying out. He cranes his neck, trying to get a glimpse at whatever Eren’s staring at. “What is it?”

“Stop moving.”

“What are you-”

“There’s a bee-”

Jean panics. “WHERE?”

“Right next to your neck,” Eren says. Jean starts giggling again, but this time it’s giddy, nervous laughter.

“What the hell is up with you?”

Jean stops laughing. “Eren, I’m anaphylactic to bees.”

“Oh, _shit_.”

“And I don’t have my epipen, I left it at home-”

Eren stares at him, eyes wide with realization. Then his gaze flicks back to the bee, and without any moment’s hesitation or warning, he slaps his hand to the ground beside Jean’s ear. Jean blinks, stunned into silence as he watches Eren slowly retract his hand.

“Did you just...did you just kill it with your bare hand?”

“...motherfucking _ouch_.”

“You dumbshit,” Jean says, starting to laugh again as Eren glares at his own hand. “Alright, alright, lemme up.”

Still pinching his hand, Eren shifts his weight back so that Jean can sit up. Together they peer down at the fresh, quickly swelling wound.

“Do you have, like, a credit card or something?”

“Well, if you hadn’t dragged me out of the house, then I might. Oh, wait, here, I can just conjure one up out of my anus-”

“Shut _up_.”

“Just lemme _see_.”

“Ow!”

“Sit still, I’m trying to-”

“Don’t pinch it, you’re gonna inject all the venom!”

“Oh, quit whining-”

“-you’re just supposed to brush it off, not squeeze-”

“There, see? All gone.”

The stinger is gone, but still Eren glares at him, cradling his hand to his chest. Jean’s still snickering when he catches sight of the dead bee. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Some gratitude would be nice,” Eren grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Eren.” Jean says, shoving Eren off his lap and standing up. He takes Eren’s good hand and pulls him up. “You ready to hike back down? You’re buying dinner, I’m starving.”

+

Tuesday and Saturdays are Jean’s days off. And ever since they started spending time together, they’ve slowly become the days that Jean can count on company. They’re the days Eren comes barging in after Jean comes home from class. With some half-assed excuse about Armin kicking him out to study, he’ll plant himself down in Jean’s kitchen, or living room, and that’s it.

The door’s unlocked when Eren arrives, so he lets himself in. The blinds are shuttered so that only a little light comes in, which strikes him as weird because Jean's always been obsessed about letting as much natural light in as possible.

"He- _llo_ -o," he calls into the seemingly empty apartment, shaking his head like a dog to remove some of the rainwater steadily dripping down his neck. "Jean, you in here? I brought some of Armin's guilt fajitas, if you're hungry." He sets the bag of food he's brought on the kitchen table, then pads back over to the living room, and that's where he finds Jean - face first in the couch with his shoes still on, fast asleep.

Eren stands there and can’t help but snicker. The drool spot darkening the couch cushion is too funny to pass up, and he briefly considers snapping a picture, before remembering that he left his phone at home.

“Damn it,” he mumbles. Jean, usually the lightest sleeper Eren’s ever known, doesn’t even stir.

Something gray pokes out between the armrest, catching Eren’s eye. It’s Jean’s beanie, wedged into the cushions after having slipped of his head, and Eren doesn’t think much about reaching over and tossing it onto the coffee table. He doesn’t really think much about the next thing he does, either, and that’s to unlace Jean’s boots and slip them off.

Finding a blanket proves a little more difficult. The one usually kept in the living room is nowhere to be found, so he has to go hunting around for it, eventually taking Jean’s own comforter off his bed.

He’s never actually been in Jean’s room before, not because Jean’s told him not to but because he’s never had a need to. He makes sure to poke around his room a little, but is disappointed. It’s plain and mostly neat except for the desk, piled high with a random assortment of clothes and textbook and paper.

But there's really not much interesting to see, so in the end he goes back and tosses the comforter over Jean, making sure to cover all of his lanky limbs.

He leaves the food on the table, along with a post it (stolen from Jean’s desk) - _Armin made these so you should thank him later also there’s salsa in the fridge but it’s too spicy for you_ \- and after swiping the spare key from the Random Shit drawer in the kitchen, Eren leaves, locking up the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize i like to repeat myself. this is purposeful, i guess you could call it a stylistic choice of mine? but if it reads weird/annoying, let me know! all con crit is v much appreciated!
> 
> also im sorry this chapter was so fucking cheesy. but i've been struggling with it for ages and i need to be over it.
> 
> im on tumblr (phoarda.tumblr.com).


	3. Part 2B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean backpedals. “Nevermind. I’ll see you after work, okay?”  
> He smoothes Eren’s hair back and hugs him one more time - suffocatingly tight, maybe too tight, except Eren hugs him back maybe even harder, pressing his wet face into Jean’s clothes, leaving a dark spot on the grey fabric that remains with Jean after he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is fuckin late. im really sorry. im not really writing for snk anymore, but the first draft of this story IS complete, even if it takes me forever to re-write it. sorry. i just can't bring myself to only post the crappy version, so it's going to take a while.
> 
> but i can't leave an incomplete story. i just can't, so...yeah. it will get here. eventually.
> 
> EDIT: after a quick read through (bc im ridic and i post it first) i realize there's some weird formatting errors, as well as a few spelling errors too. i'll get to them...eventually...just know that this is not beta read or otherwise checked.

Jean wakes up.

It’s been awhile since he last slept for more than a few hours at time, and the process of getting up and actually gaining back his consciousness is sluggish and slow. He sits up on the couch and stares across the room to the table, blinking slowly. 

Groggy is one word for it. Jean checks his phone to find he’s been dead to the world for almost twelve hours. 

The part of him that would normally be panicked is still asleep, though, so he drops his phone into his lap and bends forward, laying his head on his arm. After a short period of comfortable stretching, he finally gets up.

Eren’s obviously been by, leaving his presence in the form of a judgy post-it. Jean leaves the annoying chicken-scratch where it is, shaking his head, and goes to search for clean glass.

 

+++

 

Eren swings by  **_Alejandra’s Panaderia_ ** on his way over to Jean’s house the next morning. The smell of the pan dulce wafts up from the box in his lap, tempting his empty stomach on the short drive over, but he manages.

He lets himself in with the key he borrowed, but Jean must already be awake, because he immediately comes padding out of the hallway to watch Eren wrestle off his shoes.

“Sleep good?” Eren asks, nodding towards Jean’s bedhead, smirking.

"Mghhhrughhh fuckyew," Jean mumbles, eyes drooping. He's wearing an awful pink sweater, bits of loose yarn sticking out from all over, and his feet are bare, pale and knobby against the wood floor. "How'd you even get in my house?"

“I borrowed this,” Eren says, dangling the key out to Jean. “Here, catch.”

It misses by a mile, landing on the floor somewhere near the couch. Jean grumbles and goes to pick it up. “Where did you  _ get _ this?”

“I took it from the kitchen. Problem?”

“And I’m just supposed to trust that you didn’t make a copy?”

"I'm not going to answer that." Shoes off, Eren crosses over to the kitchen, leaving the box on the coffee table. “How else am I supposed to get my prime blackmailing material?”

Jean trails after him, oddly quiet as Eren goes poking around in his refrigerator.

“Jean.”

Jean looks up from the key in his hand, his eyebrows knitted together. “Huh?”

“How long since you last went grocery shopping?”

Jean shrugs. Something about it seems distracted. “A while?”

“You don’t even have any  **_milk_ ** ,” Eren whines. “What are you eating for breakfast, if not crappy cereal?”

He stares at Jean, who just shrugs again. Eren huffs and walks back out of the kitchen. 

“Get dressed,” he says. “I’m taking you to the supermarket.”

Jean grumbles but otherwise does as Eren instructs. He fishes the last pair of clean socks out of his closet and worms his way into yesterday's pants.

“And change out of that God-awful sweater, I can’t believe you **_own_** that thing,” Eren calls, right as Jean’s about to leave. 

“ **_Not_ ** my stylist,” Jean grumbles back. Eren’s waiting by the open door, already having tied his shoes. While Jean grabs his own and locks up the apartment, Eren wastes no time in starting down the staircase. Moments later, Jean follows, his mind elsewhere, key still clutched in his fist.

“Okay.” Eren says, once they’ve entered the store. He’s hanging off the cart in the laziest of poses, arms boneless, upper body supported from his underarms. “We don’t actually have that much time, so we better make this quick so we can drop everything off and make it to work on time.”

Jean just blinks at him, eyelids heavy.

“Wake up, dude. Produce first,” Eren snaps a finger in front of his face, then shuffles off with the cart. Jean follows, and tries to fix his messy hair.

Eren does most of the work. In the end the only fruit Jean picks out is a bag of mushy apples and make complaints about carrots, which Eren disregards. Many greens go into the cart, none of which Jean is able to identify.

Eren almost ditches him there, in the produce aisle. Jean turns around to examine something packaged and dried, then almost fails to notice when he rounds the corner to the canned foods, dragging his feet.

At least Jean  **_recognizes_ ** stuff here. Unfortunately, his attempt to purchase Spaghetti-O’s is immediately refused.

“No.”

“But it’s-”

“Definitely not happening.”

“But-”

“It takes all of ten minutes to boil pasta.” Is what Eren says, almost begging. “Ten minutes.”

The canned pasta goes back to the shelf, and from then on Jean decides to give in.

Things go very smoothly after that, up until the moment where they’re checking out.

“Wait,” Eren says, a frown beginning to form, “Jean, did you switch the milk?”

“The milk?” Jean asks, hardly paying attention. He watches sourly as the cashier scans a bag of carrots.

“Yeah, did you switch it for whole milk? What are we going to do with whole milk?”

Finally Jean turns to him. “Uh, drink it?”

The person bagging their groceries watches warily, but the look on her face as she tucks it in alongside the tomatoes says, “hell no you’re not switching this out.” 

“Seriously?”

“Jeez, sorry for not wanting watered down milk in my cereal-”

“Well, unlike others I don’t need  **_cream_ ** to go with my corn syrup-”

“You might as well save a few dollars and get your water from the tap, really.”

“And you say  **_I’m_ ** the one with bad taste.”

Jean’s still grumbling when he goes to put away the cart.

 

+++

 

It turns out Eren’s calculations were a little off, after you factor in the extra minutes spent arguing in the parking lot, and when they arrive at the lucky nearby parking spot by Jean’s apartment, they have few, precious minutes to unload and leave. Even so, Jean takes a minute before they get out.

“Wait,” he mutters, snagging the back of Eren’s hoodie, earning himself a glare.

“What?” Eren demands, still grumpy from their earlier battle, which still remained unresolved.

Jean holds out the spare key between two finger, hoping his actions can do most of the talking.

“You open the door, I’ll get the stuff.”

“Just take it,” Jean forces out. He motions with the key, feeling more awkward by the second. What a terrible idea this was, he thinks, regretting it already as he avoids eye contact.

“...why?” Eren finally asks him, sounding like he’s begun to clue in.

“You’re always here anyways, it might come in handy,” Jean says. “Just take it, God.”

It’s a long, painful minute before Eren accepts it. “Are you sure you trust me with it?” He sounds wary, looking over before zipping it into his jacket pocket. “After all that stink you made about making a copy-”

“Wow, okay, yes, I’m sure, shut up already, good **_bye_ ** ,” Jean says, quickly opening his door and grabbing the nearest plastic bag. Face burning, he grabs another and starts walking down the street before Eren can say anything else.

The  _ giggling _ is bad enough.

 

+++

 

It’s not until February 12th that Jean realizes how to what extent he takes Eren’s unbridled enthusiasm and intensity for granted.

He’s always told himself that these two characteristics make up the main reason Eren annoys him to no end, and that they’re the main cause for all of their arguments, but the truth is that they kind of define Eren as the person he is. And when he shows up on February 12th to pick Jean up -

Opens the door, greets him quietly and says nothing more, eyes rimmed with red, arms dangling limp while he waits for Jean to get in -

Jean does a double take. Because for a bizarre second, he’d almost thought it wasn’t him.

Jean doesn’t have a clue how to react, so he doesn’t; he stares at Eren and tries to make sense of his controlled, lackluster demeanor. He doesn’t know how else to ask, doesn’t even really know if he  **_should_ ** ask, but he figures blunt is best anyways. “Have you been crying?”

Eren doesn’t look at him. He turns the keys in the ignition and gets going. Jean’s not sure if the silence is supposed to be an answer, or if he’s being ignored. He tries to come up with a list of all known possibilities for what could make Eren cry.

He comes up with one thing - Toy Story 3. Then he discards it, because he’s never seen Eren like this - quiet, reserved, depressing. See, Eren’s become a constant, for Jean. Where Jean is moody, turbulent, indecisive, Eren is confident and consistent, and while he’s not predictable, per se, the reasoning behind his actions make sense, in a way. Jean knows Eren, how he works, what enthuses and what motivates him.

He doesn’t normally do this. And Jean’s stumped for what to do.

Eren parks in the back lot and sits still for a few seconds, looking out, before he opens his door. Jean climbs out slowly, waiting for Eren before going to get his keys.

"See you later," Eren mumbles. He walks off towards the office without waiting.

 

+++

 

Jean goes looking for him during lunch hour. He almost doesn’t see him, sitting on one of the concrete bumps in the empty back parking lot. He’s got his head in his hands, and he looks like he’s been crying again.

Jean parks his ass down next to him. He’s loud enough that Eren must hear him, even if he doesn’t make any move to acknowledge him. Jean doesn’t kno what to say, so he says nothing while peeling a piece of worn rubber off his shoe.

Eventually Eren raises his head. His cheeks are shiny with tears, ut he makes no move to wipe them. Jean’s never liked seeing people cry, and this is no exception. He averts his eyes, feeling like an asshole but not knowing exactly why. 

Jean pulls a strip of rubber clean off. Eren watches until he’s down to the grey sole, then sighs wetle and reaches in his pocket for a tissue. He blows his nose with a deafening honk.

Jean doesn’t know why he’s sitting there. He really doesn’t want to see Eren cry, and he doesn’t know how to comfort him, but here he is regardless, out of his mind with this heavy sense of helplessness. Something about Eren, the way he’s quiet and almost pretending like Jean isn’t there, is frustrating. It’s frustrating enough that eventually Jean’s patience runs out.

“What is wrong with you?” he says, standing up. “What the  **_fuck_ ** is the matter?”

“Oh,  **_fuck_ ** you,” Eren says, voice stuffy and irritated. “Do me a favor and fuck off, okay?”

Jean pulls Eren up by the arm, forcing him up, abruptly enough to make them both stumble. “No, okay, don’t even try. You’re the one who got pissy with me when  _ I _ didn’t talk. I don’t want to hear any of this hypocritical shit.”

Eren slaps Jean’s hand off, and it stings. Jean grabs him again, a little looser this time. Eren’s glare is lethal, even through red-rimmed eyes. “I had to take my mom to the hospital this morning,” he spits, “So while I appreciate the gesture and all, I can’t deal with this today.”

Jean falters. “Take her to the hospital?” he echoes. “Why?”

“She’s dying,” Eren says. 

As Jean stares at him, Eren’s face crumples. “I thought we wouldn’t make it this morning. She couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t fucking do her seatbelt and she couldn’t breathe because her lungs are bad and they’re only getting worse and it’s killing her and there’s nothing I can do.”

Eren breaks off, closing his eyes, and his lashes dislodge more tears. 

“And unless they find a donor soon, really soon-”

He sobs.

It’s the most painful thing Jean’s ever had to hear. 

He still doesn’t know what to do, but after he stands there in front of Ere for a little while and watches him cry, he makes up his mind to pull Eren in and hug him hard. His arms aren’t strong but he does his best, and presses him closer when he feels Eren shudder, face buried in Jean’s sweatshirt.

Eren cries and cries. Jean says nothing and thinks nothing and does nearly nothing. He leans his cheek on the crown of Eren’s head, because what else is there to say or do?

“I’m useless.”

Eren’s voice is muffled. Not enough for Jean to miss when it cracks.

“She’s dying and there’s nothing for me to do about it.” Eren tenses like he wants to pull away, but Jean squeezes harder, almost swaddles him like you might a baby, and when Eren cries harder, Jean’s own eyes well up, too, because he can’t thinking of anything more painful than Eren being powerless.

Eren’s the guy who won’t leave anything unresolved. Who doesn’t take crap from anyone, who never half-asses anything and has so many honest-to-God  **_feelings_ ** . Who’s capable and strong and willing to go the extra mile for anyone, and no he’s powerless. And in a way, it’s almost the worst thing that Eren can be, because when you’re a guy who loves his mother as much as he does, to be completely useless to help and protect her as he is now is nothing short of heart breaking.

Jean is powerless against the tears that come, no matter how hard he tries to choke them back. Powerless to do anything but hug Eren tight.

 

+++

 

Eventually Eren’s tears run out. They stand there a little while, drying their eyes and hiccuping, and Kean only releases his wrestling hold on Eren when his phone chirps a reminder in his pocket, notifying him that lunch break is nearly over.

Eren looks tiny. Like he’s cried out too much of his weight in tears. He stands in front of Jean with his shoulders drooping and his arms limp, looking like a ghost, a shell of his usual demeanor.

“I gotta go back,” Jean says, wishing he didn’t. It doesn’t feel right, to end it here, to leave Eren like this. “Are you going back to the hospital later?”

Eren nods, sniffing.

“Do-” Jean breaks off. Is it okay for him to ask? “Do you want me to Come with you?”

Eren looks up, brow creasing.

Jean backpedals. “Nevermind. I’ll see you after work, okay?”

He smoothes Eren’s hair back and hugs him one more time - suffocatingly tight, maybe too tight, except Eren hugs him back maybe even harder, pressing his wet face into Jean’s clothes, leaving a dark spot on the grey fabric that remains with Jean after he’s gone.

 

+++

 

Eren drops him off at home at the end of the day, barely remembering to say goodbye. Jean expects him to take a few days off from work, at least, but he’s back the next day and Jean’s not sure whether it’s  good thing.

Jean has dinner with Connie and Sasha. They forgo setting the table and eat in the living room, curled up on the cushions with their plates in their lap. Sasha has few details to share - Eren’s already told him the gist, anyway. 

“The worst part is the waiting, isn’t it?” Jean mutters, stabbing a potato patty with his fork.”Because there’s a chance, too. To get a donor in time.” 

“She’s been sick for a long time, Jean,” Sasha says. “Nobody’s banking on it. Finding someone healthy, with a matching blood type - all the while her lungs get worse, which can mean damage to her heart.”

It seems warmer in their house than in Jean’s that day. He wonders if it’s because his apartment has been so empty lately.

 

+++

 

Eren’s with his mom when Carla receives the phone call. While she speaks in the living room, he sits at the table peeling potatoes, his heart pounding in his chest the same way it did when he fell off the monkey bars in second grade.

They go together. The surgery is scheduled a week from Friday.

 

+++

 

Apart from the ride to and from work, Jean has seen very little of Eren ever since that day in the parking lot, but a week before the surgery date Jean gets a text asking if he’s up for company.

Jean’s not sure why - it seems like Eren should rather spend time with his family and Armin than watch a terrible movie with Jean - but Eren asked himself, and Jean’s not about to refuse.

In retrospect, it could’ve been awkward. After all, Jean knows himself to be the one who never has the right words to come out of his mouth. But Eren shows up, they figure out food and sort through the fridge, and Jean asks how Carla is, how Eren’s feeling. Eren answers honestly (“Everyone’s just...really, really nervous, and trying not to show it. And I think my mom needed me out of the house for a bit,”) and that’s it. The subject changes to something else, some movie they watched months ago, and they get into an argument about dinner, and that’s it.

And that’s what Eren needs. A breather. A break from stressing out, even if only for a few hours. 

“Hey,” Eren says, while he’s poking around in the cabinets. “You’ve actually got some food in here. Maybe we should try cooking something, for once.”

Jean scoffs. “I worked and went to school. Also, I’m not a cook. Also, I don’t have any energy for that.”

Eren gives him a funny look over the fridge door. “Jean, when was the last time you cooked a meal?”

Jean shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“So you’re saying you basically live off of take-out?”

“Not just take-out. I eat at my mom’s house sometimes. And Connie’s place. And cereal, I eat a lot of-”

Eren kicks him in the shin. “Stop talking! I don’t want to hear any more of your gross eating habits, it’s making me feel sick. Someone needs to stage an intervention.”

“What are you, my mom-”

Eren snatches the paper menu for Teriyaki Palace from his hand. “Nope. We’re making spaghetti today. No arguments.”

“We? Um-”

“Come on, are you going to live your whole life without knowing how to make a single meal?”

“Dude, you’re the one against ordering in, I’m not helping you-” Eren kicks him again, this time behind the knees. “OW! Seriously?”

Of course he ends up helping Eren. He complains, but once it’s all prepared and served, he’s kind of looking forward to it. Eren knew what he was doing when he made the sauce - the tomato and beef and garlic combination fills up the whole kitchen with a smell that’s tempting enough to make his stomach growl.

They eat while watching part of  _ Juno _ (2007), and after they’ve both had seconds, they take a pause to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. They fight over who has to wash and who has to dry, and in the end Eren shoves him aside and tells him to make hot chocolate and stay out of his way.

(Jean has a theory that involves Eren being addicted to the hot chocolate he makes, and when he mentions this, snickering, Eren gets very flustered and whips a towel in his direction.)

Like usual, Eren’s out like a light come 10PM. There’s no resistance, it just is. Jean settles in for the night, comfortable on the couch with the lights out and his computer doubling as a heating pad.

 

+++

 

Sometime after 2AM, he hears a squeak. 

Jean’s half-asleep, at this point, still futzing around on the City Central Community College website, somewhat frustratedly because it’s in dire need of maintenance. He looks over, the laptop falling flat on his chest. Squinting into the dark, he hears it again, as strangled whimper that can’t  **_possibly_ ** be Eren, except that it is.

Jean shoves his computer aside and sits up, trying to make out Eren’s sleeping figure in the dark. He steps over carefully, cautiously.

“Eren?” he whispers. He can hear Eren’s shallow breathing, the whistle of air that keeps getting caught in his throat as though he’s trying to call out.

The sound is familiar. Jean can compare it to the countless times his own dreams have terrified him to the point where he can barely make this noise. He reaches out, feeling around for Eren’s shoulder, instead accidentally grazing his cheek. But Eren doesn’t react. Jean finds his arm and shakes with some force, trying to wake him. “Eren,” he whispers again, “Wake up.”

It takes some force, some persistent shoves to pull him from his deep sleep, but finally, he opens his eyes. Quickly, he sits up, almost knocking Jean down.

“Ah,” Jean exclaims, more than a little surprised. Eren stares at him with wide eyes that shine with unshed tears, tense with the collar of his own shirt held tightly in his fist. Then he slumps, staring at his knees or something else, something not actually there, Jean’s not sure, but he’s shaking like a leaf, and he still hasn’t said a word.

“Hey,” Jean says, and it comes out low and less gruff than he would’ve expected, “What is it?”

Eren sniffs wetly, another small, airy sound escaping his lungs. It’s without thinking that Jean reaches out, but as soon as he lays a head on his back, Eren stills, releasing a shuddering breath.

Jean rubs his back, and after a bit, Eren leans into his side. Through Jean’s shirt he can feel that Eren’s hair is soaked with sweat. Jean winds his other arm around Eren’s shoulder and coots closer, onto the blanket spread out on the floor, and tries to think of something soothing to say. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Fuck no,” Eren chokes out.

“Okay.”

Jean holds him for a long time. Long enough that his laptop falls asleep, cutting out the once source of light in the room. Long enough that Eren falls asleep, and even longer still - just because it takes so long for Jean to notice.

 

+++

 

Jean doesn’t remember having ever before felt so fundamentally helpless as he does around Eren.

It’s not uncomfortable, per se, between them, but Eren’s aged. God, he’s aged a lot in the past few weeks, and understandably so. Constant stress and anxiety wear a person down. He’s quiet now, most of the time. He’s tired, too, but he has a hard time sleeping, and since the firt time Jean woke him up from a nightmare, there have been many more.

There’s something sad, something deeply exhausting about about this helplessness. 

It’s watching Eren when he thinks no one’s looking. Watching him check his phone constantly. Watching him start up an awful habit of chewing his nails. 

It’s having to call his name multiple times before he realizes he’s being spoken to. He’s distracted and lackluster and tired, words that don’t seem to belong to Eren. Words that Jean thinks never had anything to do with him.

They’re the antonyms of his personality. They’re a warning sign, of sorts. Something’s wrong.

Of course something’s wrong. The problem is that there’s nothing Jean can do about it. And this helplessness is hard. Because despite the fact that he’d be willing to do just about anything, there’s really nothing he  _ can _ do for Eren.

Maman calls him a few days after the dinner, checking in. One of the first things she asks is “How’s Eren?”

“No change,” Jean says. He breathes a sigh, frown settling deep into his brow. “He’s tired and anxious all the time. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to help.”

The line is silent for a bit, while Jean struggles to put frustration into words, and Maman knows him well enough to wait.

“He doesn’t eat enough. Says he’s not hungry. I don’t think he’s getting much exercise lately. I don’t know. I can’t get him to talk, but I don’t even know, like...what is there to talk about?” Jean can tell that his voice is taking on that pitchy, nasal tone. He’s upset. 

He takes another breath, says quietly, “I don’t like to see him like this.”

“I know, Jean-bo.”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes...sometimes all you can do is just be there.”

“I want to  _ help _ ,” Jean presses.

“I know you do. But you can’t change things for him any more than anyone else can. And listen,” she says. “He - Eren needs people right now. The people who will drop anything, at any moment, to be by his side. But he also needs the people who he can escape with for a bit, you know? People who help him keep some normalcy in his life. I think it’s kind of hard to be both...and Jean? Sometimes, Eren’s going to need to b on his for a but, you know? He’s going to need to work though it himself. You can’t be everything for him.”

Jean picks at the corner of one of his open book, folding one of the corners back, dog-earing a few pages.

“I think he knows that too. And I’m sure he appreciates the fact that you want to help him, too.”

 

+++

 

Maman suggests that he bring Eren over when he comes for dinner, and before he knows it, Jean’s already opening his mouth with several adamant excuses on his tongue.

First of all, Eren’s been so busy lately that Jean hasn’t even seen him that much himself. Two - well, would Eren even want that? Like, well - seeing that Jean has two healthy mothers, both -

Jean closes his mouth, already mentally kicking himself. 

The more he thinks about it, the more it seems like it might just be good for him. He floats the idea to Sasha, who tells him to ask Connie, who basically says, “Of course it’s a good idea, why the fuck did you take so long?”

“Look, you don’t have to,” Jean says, his phone slipping out from his grip between his ear and shoulder. He readjusts, trying to cram his notes into his backpack while scooting towards the sides of the busy hallway. “But I am going over there tonight, and you haven’t met them yet, so if you’re, I don’t know, feeling up to it.”

Eren’s voice is muffled - he’s with Armin, helping him load his car or some shit - but the chuckle is unmistakable. “Wait, seriously? You think I don’t want to? You think I’m going to miss out on what might be a prime opportunity to dig up childhood dirt on you?”

Jean falters a little. He’s caught off-guard by how quickly Eren has enthusiastically expressed himself.

“Not to mention - I haven’t eaten with you in weeks,” Eren goes on, and for some reason, Jean feels his face heat up. “You been avoiding me or something?”

Jean scoffs. “That’s - dude! That’s you, asshole! How can I be the one bailing on  _ you _ when you’re the one who’s supposed to come over.”

“Whatever, man, I’m not arguing with you about this. I’m going, tell your moms. You need me to bring anything?”

“Nah. Trust me, you bring yourself and they’ll be just fine,” Jean mutters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve known you since November, Eren. It’s kind of driving them crazy that they haven’t met you yet.”

“Oh?” Eren’s voice takes on that slimy angle. “Does that mean I come up in conversation a lot?”

Jean flushes again. “Shut up.” Even darker when Eren laughs. “Shut  _ up _ . Whatever, pick me up at six, I gotta go.”

“Take care of yourself, Jeanny-poo.”

 

+++

 

Jean’s nervous, though he’ll never admit it.

Eren barges into his apartment without warning, causing Jean to startle in the bathroom away from the mirror.

“How are you not ready yet?” Eren shouts. Within seconds, he’s leaning into the doorway. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Jean flips him off and finishes washing his hands.

“You know, it’ll probably also make sense for you to meet my mom at this rate,” Eren remarks.

Jean shoves past him into the bedroom. “Yeah? Why?”

“Well, I’m not around quite as often on weekends like I used to be, and I guess Mikasa kind of told her…”

Jean winces. “Good things, I hope?”

Eren just laughs. “I’ll wait outside.”

Jean takes a little longer than is strictly needed. After he grabs his coat and sticks his feet in his boots, he stands in front of the door and allows himself a moment to acknowledge how...fluttery his stomach is.

Maybe nervous isn’t the right word, but what do you call an elevated heartbeat and a tingling in your fingers? 

Fuck.

Jean can’t even think these thoughts to himself without feeling embarrassed, so he shoves it out of his mind, locks up the apartment, and meets Eren in the parking lot.

“Alright, you better be a good navigator,” Eren says. He starts the engine and pulls out of the lot.

“You know the rec center near Bird Park?”

Eren looks over blankly.

“Nevermind. You know Redwood street?”

Eren squints out the window. “Isn’t that in Kearny Mesa? I thought you said you guys lived near Balboa.”

Jean sighs. He wonders out loud how Eren has kept his job for so long without learning at least some geography of San Diego. It earns him a fist to the the ribs, causing them to miss a right turn when Eren tries to get him back.

 

+++

 

Eren’s out of the truck and wandering around on the sidewalk before Jean even opens his door. “Is this it?” he asks, to be sure.

Jean responds by walking up the driveway, and opening the mailbox on his way in - force of habit, because both of his mothers have always been terrible about checking mail.

Jean opens the door. After one last glance back at Eren, who’s looking more restless and curious by the second, he steps inside.

The first person they see is Dana, who’s lying on the couch with her head hanging from the side, upside down with her phone inches from her face. 

“Oh, I forgot you were still around,” Jean says. He shoves his jacket off, grateful for the fact that it’s warm inside.

Dana sit up, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too,” she says. Her hair falls heavily back into it’s place, not a single strand rebelling. “Who’s this?”

“Eren, this is Dana.”

Eren shakes her hand, and it’s only a little awkward. They leave her to her phone, and cross the house over to the kitchen.

Someone’s turned the radio on - Mariana, probably - and it’s blasting some hits from the eighties at a high volume, though it isn’t nearly loud enough to top the sound of Jean’s mothers laughing.

“Oh,” Jeanine says, startled a little, “Mon chouchou!”

Jean rounds the counter, dropping the stack of mail on top, and stoops to kiss them both. Eren follows, his eyes drinking in every detail, every collected tea tin and cookbook poking out of the shelves and stacked on surfaces.

Jean goes about introducing him in what he thinks will be the least awkward way possible: directly, without preamble.

“Maman, Mariana - this is Eren. Eren-” Mariana gives him a funny look. “What?”

Jeanine goes straight for the hug. “We’re so happy to have you,” she says, with a smile that reaches her eyes. 

“Welcome to the Kirchnest,” Mariana says. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Eren is immediately grinning. If his smile were a candle, Jean could pin-point the moment it was lit, and that’s the moment Maman pulls back to look at him.

“Yeah, Jean has mentioned you  _ lots _ ,” Mariana buts in.

“Ha,  _ ha. _ ”

“Likewise,” Eren says. “I hear Jean is quite the mama’s boy.” He chances a glance at Jean at this point.

Jeanine slaps his arm. “Isn’t that right,” she says.

Jean internally throws his hands up. It’s obvious he had nothing to stress over. “Great. I’m sure you’ll get along great, thanks to me, the butt of your jokes.”

They cackle. All of them. Jean’s in for a long night, he knows, but he doesn’t really mind. What had he even been nervous about? It seems absurd at this point. That he expected a sort of clashing of worlds; the women who changed his diapers and taught him to balance a checkbook, and the boy who he met through work, and fell asleep watching movies with. His family, and his...friend.

But it doesn’t feel like a surprise, the fact that they get along so well. Because, well - him and Eren, aren’t they a little bit of a family on their own?

Jean looks at him sideways and wonders if he’s the only one who’s ever had the thought cross his mind.

“Hello? Jean?” Mariana wave a hand in front of his face then pinches his nose. “You wanna set the table?”

Jean grumbles about still being the slave even after having moved out, but complies nonetheless. Eren joins him with a glass of wine, but makes no move to help him, just perches cheerfully on a chair and takes an occasional sip.

“So this is where you grew up?

“Yeah, pretty much. I’ve never spent that much time at my dad’s, especially not after Mariana moved it.”

“No allergies, right, Eren?” Maman asks over the sound of the music and the stove’s fan, peering in around the counter cabinets.

“No, ma’am.”

Maman turns away again. 

Jean kicks Eren lightly in the foot. “You’re such a suck-up sometimes.”

“Eh, just because I’m not a rude brat-”

“Excuse me-”

“-who grumps around all day-”

“Asshole, I don’t grump…”

Eren distorts his face into what Jean takes to be a pathetic impression of his ‘grump’. But he doesn’t get the chance to smack him in the head for it, because Maman’s coming back in with a closed pot and quick steps. 

“Okay, watch out,” she says, dropping it heavily onto one of the hot plates Jean had set out earlier. The glass lid is cloudy with condensation. “I sure hope you aren’t a picky eater, Eren.”

"Nah, I'm pretty good. Only when it comes to shellfish. And octopus."

"No octopus?" Mariana says, entering the room with a roasting pan. She sets it on the table with a degree of care that Claudine hadn't utilized. She tuts and shakes her head, to which Eren just grins bashfully.

Jean crosses his arms on the table and watches as she slices the hot bread. She uses her bare hands, like she always has, taking them off occasionally to prevent them from burning too much, and the crust makes a hollow, crisp sound whenever she accidentally knocks the knife against it.

It's familiar. Jean likes being back at home.

"Dana, vous dînerez bien avec nous?" Claudine calls to the living room.

"Non." Dana responds. "I'm going to Andrea's right now. Merci, Maman."

She leaves, though not without first kissing both women on the cheek and slapping Jean's head. Mariana serves the soup with a ladle. It's orange squash, and after she drops a spoonful of cream on each, everyone sits down, and dinner begins.

He can tell they like Eren. They like the way he doesn’t beat around the bush, how he’s direct (like them), how he’s very curious, how he always seems to ask the right questions. They like his sense of humor, too. 

And Jean knows they see what he does in Eren, when they finally see him laugh in his own, unique Eren way: with his whole body, without holding back. Jean sees the way his mothers grin, a little taken aback at first glance; and then, delighted.

 

+++

 

“Merde, I almost forgot.” Maman hustles back to the kitchen. She returns with a heavy paper bag, which she opens and holds out for Eren to peer inside at the homemade palmiers. “Take these to share with your maman. I hope we may meet her one day. I’m sure she is just as wonderful as you are.”

“Mhmm. Bring your family next time, okay?”

They’re getting ready to leave. Jackets on, keys in pocket. And for a moment it looks like Eren’s about to cry, standing there and nodding and accepting the cookies.

And then he does, actually - start to cry.

“That’s so  _ nice, _ ” he squeaks out, nodding. He hiccups, and it’s like now that he’s started, he can’t quite help himself as his face crumples and folds into itself.

_ Aw, Eren. _ Jean can’t help but think. But it’s not a pitying thought, not sad or condescending at all. It’s affectionate, and fond, and maybe a little teary-eyes and he just want to laugh a little. 

By how Eren is so moved by the simplest gestures. By how Jean knows he fits right at home.

And Jean is so suddenly filled with a rush of affection that he just wants to hug him, right then and there, and he’s about to when Maman beats him to it.

Pulls him in firmly. Holds his head to her bosom. Nevermind that he’s twenty years old, she’s wiping his tears and hugging him. Mariana pats his check when he eventually emerges, and grins, and with that, Jean pulls him away and they walk out together.

They sit in the truck for a bit before either of them speak. Eren makes no move to turn the key, just sits there. Sniffles.

“Your moms are fucking awesome,” he eventually says.

“I know.”

“I fucking hope so.”

“Fuck you, I’m not ungrateful, you little shit-”

Jean still kind of wants to hug him, but he punches him instead, which means Eren punches him back, so Jean grabs him and holds his head tightly in a lock, just holds him there. And Eren lets him - though he could likely remove himself if he tried - just lets Jean squeeze him tight, lets him stick his sharp little nose into his greasy hair and sigh.

“I’m glad I met you, Jean.”

Jean chokes up. At this, of all things. He has to breathe, stop thinking that it’s been a long time since anyone’s been anything other than exasperated or frustrated or disappointed in him. Stop thinking that maybe it’s been a long time since someone’s been glad to know him, maybe longer still that anyone’s voiced it out loud. It’s overwhelmingly sweet. 

“Me too.”

 

+++

 

Jean’s lying on the couch, his psychology assignment strewn all over the coffee table and floor, laptop in his lap. He’s lying there, procrastinating, when the doorknob starts to jiggle.

It takes him a minute to remove all the papers and shit he’d left on his legs and feet, before he sits up and peers over the couch. It’s Eren, which he had guessed, since he was currently the only other person with a key, but something is definitely wrong.

He looks more distraught than Jean’s ever seen him. Fumbling to lock the door, his hair sticking up in a million ways, blood-

Blood?

Eren turns, and that’s when he notices Jean staring at him. “Oh,  _ shit _ .”

“What happened?” Jean manages to choke out, dropping his computer and hopping over the back of the couch. He stumbles over to Eren, and a closer glance tells him that the blood on his face is just a smear, that the bleeding is located elsewhere.

“What are you...aren’t you supposed to be with Sash?”

Jean shakes his head. He’s still trying. Where is the blood coming from. “She left early, no! What the fuck happened?”

“Don’t tell Armin,” Eren pleads. He makes a beeline for the bathroom. “Please.”

Jean follows, more confused. “Eren, there’s blood - what did you  _ do _ ?”

“Nothing, okay? Don’t worry about it. Nothin’, Jean, get  _ out _ .”

Eren tries blocking him, but Jean’s persistent enough, tall enough, to catch a glimpse. Eren’s bloody knuckles, splashing into the sink, creating pink streams out of the tap water.

“Your blood? Eren, what the fuck did you do?” Jean begs, barely registering how shrill his voice it, what his expression must say.

“I didn’t  _ do _ anything-”

“Bullshit, Eren, you’re bleeding God there’s blood did you get into a fight? Were you fighting somebody?”

“No fight,” Eren says, hip checking him away from the sink. “I punched a wall.”

Jean shoves him aside a little, yanks his hand up away from the faucet by the sleeve of his hoodie. “Why the fuck? Are you serious? I can’t fucking believe - did you break something in your hand? Is that - is that  _ glass _ do you need me to take you to the emerg-”

“Jean,” Eren says, firm enough to pull Jean back a little, “I don’t need you to take me anywhere. It’s just a scrape.”

“Hey, don’t fuck with me, that is  _ not _ ‘just a scrape’.”

“You need to calm the fuck down.”

“I should call Armin, maybe he can talk some sense into you.”

Eren stills, his chest rising and falling, body tense with alarm. “Don’t call him. Don’t call Armin or Mikasa, please-”

“Well if you would fucking listen or explain I wouldn’t have to!”

Jean still has the sleeve in his hand. He lets go of it now, steps back to lean on the doorway. The water’s still running, but Eren’s hands are suspended mid-air.

“I’ll go, okay? I’ll go. Just swear you won’t say a word to either of them. Or mom.”

Jean frowns, shakes his head. “Eren, what the fuck is the deal?”

Eren’s hand is dripping onto the edge of the sink. “Just do me a favor and don’t tell them, okay?”

Jean shakes his head again, but grabs the hand towel and tosses it at him anyway. “Where are your keys?”

 

+++

 

The emergency room is busy. In the few times he’s been there, Jean can’t remember a time that it wasn’t. They wait squeezed into adjacent seats, and fight over the forms, because for as much as Eren will attempt to pretend that his hand isn’t very possibly broken, Jean won’t let him.

And he kind of...he must be in pain, but he really does seem to forget a little. He sits and stares at the hole  _ kilombo _ around him, as Marian would say - the seething kid with his mother, the pale-looking guy beside them who looks like he wants to hurl, the obvious head injury across the room. He just observes and holds his wrapped-up hand. Looks like he’s not even all there.

Jean’s patience is long gone by the time he hands the clipboard back in, but he still tries to be calm when he asks Eren for a full explanation. 

He only kind of gets one. It takes a little wheedling.

“I punched a wall earlier.”

“That’s-” Jean breathes loud through his nose, “That, I already know  _ that. _ ”

“Jean-”

“Eren.”

Eren looks away. The hair on the back of his head is shaped into a crooked cowlick, but Jean is too annoyed to find any humor in it.

He decides to change tracks. “Why would Mikasa and Armin freak if they found out?”

“Because I promised it wouldn’t happen again,” Eren says quietly. His good hand picks at the seam of his jeans, and his leg bounces tirelessly, undermining his calm expression.

“Quit that,” Jean says. He slaps Eren’s leg when he doesn’t. “Promised what wouldn’t happen again?”

“ _ This! _ ”

“Oh my fucking God, if you don’t cut it out with this cryptic shit, I  _ will _ call Armin-”

Eren looks over sharply. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then answer some of my questions, shithead!”

Eren closes his mouth and makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad.”

“There’s nothing to freak out about, okay? They just overreact, and I did promise that I’d quit this shit. I went, I went to therapy for a while, you know,” he says, looking away. No, Jean didn’t know. “I took classes to manage anger, compartmentalize or whatever.”

“Is-” Jean interrupts, then pauses, unsure of what he even wants to ask. “Connie said something vague a while ago, something about you being an angry kid.”

“Yeah. I guess you could say that. WHenever I got frustrated I got really physical. I got into some fights because of it, but mostly I’d fuck up my hands on inanimate shit. Therapy was supposed to help me...like, internalize or whatever.”

“So what the fuck was today?”

Eren’s jaw flexes. “I slipped up. The point is, I’ve been here often enough that they’re going to see this as a relapse. The point is that they made me promise to stop.

“So what’s your excuse?”

“My excuse is that my mom’s dying and there’s nothing I can fucking do about it, okay?” Eren bursts out.

They’re quiet after that. Eren fumes.

“Sorry,” Jean eventually mumbles.

“Whatever.”

“That still doesn’t explain the glass.”

Eren glares at his fist. “That was an accident. I wasn’t trying to break the lamp.”

“What happens when they see you? At work, wherever?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet. I guess I’ll hide out at your place for a while.”

For the first time since Eren burst into his apartment, Jean cracks a smile. He says nothing.

Eren notices, sort of doing a double take. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Jean says, and it’s not, really. But his lips twitch all the same.

Eren huffs, wrapping the makeshift towel-bandage tighter around his fist.

Curiosity eventually gets the best of him, and Jean asks, “Have you broken anything before?”

“In my hand or in general?”

“Wherever.”

“I’ve broken my arm,” Eren says, “My nose, my pinky finger, and a few of my ribs. I’ve dislocated both thumbs and my index finger, once.”

Jean must show something on his face, because Eren shrugs and turns away.

“That’s…” Jean says, searching for a word that for once doesn’t sound condescending. “...impressive?”

Eren snorts.

“You get that all in fights, or like what happened today?”

“Both.”

The nurse comes, then, asking Jean to stay behind. He’s gone for what must be forty minutes, but feels like two hours, and then discharged with a few stitches and a warning not to rip them.

Eren’s still holding the bloodied towel when he comes out.

Jean points this out, and Eren hands it over, absently again, like he’s barely listening.

“Look,” Jean says, when they arrive at the lot. He takes the keys out of his pocket, but only moves to better face Eren. “You can stay over, if you want. But you better not make this a habit. Armin and Mikasa - that’s between you guys, and I’m not going to get in trouble for you.”

“You’re totally going to hold this over my head, aren’t you.”

“You bet. And you better not drool on my blankets, or I’ll rip a stitch or two.”

 

+++

 

Jean doesn’t have school on the day that Carla’s surgery is scheduled, but even if he did, he would’ve skipped because Eren asked him to be there.

He has mixed feelings. The fact that he never actually met Carla, for one, or the fear of intruding on Mikasa and Armin.

But Eren asked him, so he’s going.

 

+++

 

Jean sticks around for as long as Eren asks him too. Well, Jean stays for as long as Eren doesn’t express interest in wanting him to leave, which is long into the night, until Carla finally is back in the recovery room. He stays in the waiting room, promising Eren he won’t leave without letting him know, and waits there as the three go to see here.

Annie’s there. She makes no attempt to converse. She seems very unaffected, by the sounds of the hospital, by the motion that surrounds them. Here tired eyes are blank.

Jean’s never been good at waiting, and it’s quite a while before they come back. He’s never liked hospitals much, either - something about the smells and lighting that put him on edge.

Eren makes a beeline for him, when they return. Jean stands to meet him, and Eren says nothing. He stuffs his face in Jean’s chest and stays still with his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Mikasa and Armin come up alongside them. Mikasa smiles tiredly, and Armis rests a soft hand on Eren’s arm, coaxes him into a hug.

Jean watches, anxious not to intrude but unsure where to look, but then Mikasa pulls him aside, and his focus is redirected.

“I wanted to thank you,” she says. “It means a lot to Eren that you’re here. It means a lot to both of us.”

And then she hugs him.

Soft but firm, her hand press briefly into his back, and then she pulls away to Annie, who nods in his direction, and they both turn away to talk in low voices.

_ But I didn’t  _ do _ anything. _ The words wants to come out, but for now, at least, Jean shakes it off.

Eren practically tackles him from behind. “I’m staying here overnight,” he says. His voice is scratchy. “You should go home. You have work tomorrow, right?”

Jean nods, then stops himself. “You’re sure…?”

“Go home, Jean.”

“...okay.”

Eren squeezes him tight.

“I’ll walk you out,” Armin offers. Jean says goodbye and follows him to the exit, glad he wasn’t left to navigate the winding halls on his own.

“So,” Jean says, and Armin turns his head, an acknowledgement. “Does this mean...”

“She’s not out of the woods yet,” Armin says, catching on immediately to Jean’s unasked question. “The surgery went well, and that’s good - but the real challenge will be in the weeks to come.” 

He sighs. They step aside to let someone on a gurney pass, flanked by two chatting nurses.

“Having the lungs is one thing. Now we have to wait and hope that her body doesn’t reject them.”

“Reject them?”

“Yes,” Armin says. “They’ll give her medicine to prevent her immune system from taking over, but that can always lead to other complications. She’ll be at risk for infections, or she could get sick. She’s - her body is very weak right now. A simple cold could be really scary.”

They pass the same front desk they had coming in, and then they’re in the parking lot. Armin’s ponytail is slipping out, and the outdoor breeze whips stray hair across his cheeks and nose. He casts Jean a sideways glance, looking contemplative. “Eren tends to get carried away sometimes. Not in a bad way, always. But you know him. It’s hard to just sit back and stay hopeful. He has this...hmmm, I don’t want to call it a superhero complex. But that’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“It really kills him not to be able to do something.” Jean’s throat feels dry.

“Yes. But you’ve helped, by being around. He needs company. Someone to have, a distraction.”

Jean quiets.

Armin shakes his head. He stops, and they’ve arrived right in front of Jean’s cab. “I guess what I’m saying is thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being there. For...liking Eren, I guess.” Armin stares at him for a bit, finally shakes his head. “The next few weeks are going to be tough. Go get some sleep, okay?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you thought, if you are so inclined. it's been a really good exercise to write this and think about how my style has changed. in some ways, my old writing is better than i always think.  
> but im sure it could use a lot of work!
> 
> i'm on tumblr (@phoarda)! im bts trash now so if you like my writing, by some tiny tiny tiny chance, then look out for some fics bc im trash who writes stuff


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